


Raveling Tendrils

by paleogymnast



Series: Hunters of the Dark Side [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darth Azazel has been permanently defeated, Ruby has been stripped from her stolen body, balance has been restored to the Force, and the Universe can breathe a sigh of relief at last. Now the Winchesters and their friends are faced with an impossible question--where do they go from here? Sam struggles to come to terms with who he is, was, and may become. Shran tries to balance his loyalty to the Protectorate with his Jedi heritage. Dean and Cas realize that while the Lost Prophecy has finally come to pass, they have far to go in their journey in the Force. Meanwhile Miss'Ouri keeps watch over her charges as the universe change around them.  Is it time to celebrate the defeat of the most powerful Sith Lord in history? Or will Sam, Dean, and Cas discover their work with the Protectorate is just beginning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raveling Tendrils

**Author's Note:**

> Raveling Tendrils is set in the [Hunters of the Dark Side](http://paleogymnast.livejournal.com/18329.html) 'verse, a Supernatural / Star Wars fusion and crossover universe. This story is the third in the series and is an epilogue of sorts to [The Fulcrum of the Force](http://paleogymnast.livejournal.com/48594.html). Complete notes on characters and terminology used in this 'verse can be found in the story notes accompanying both The Fulcrum of the Force and Hunters of the Dark Side.

**Raveling Tendrils**

 _Dantooine_

Dantooine had long been a place of refuge for Jedi and Sith alike. It was isolated enough to provide some privacy and quiet from the bustling pace of the galaxy. The planet was almost idyllic in its appearance: majestic wildlife; graceful, easy-growing sedges and grasses; ancient trees; babbling brooks and streams; rolling hills; and cool rocks covered the planet’s main continent, while a temperate climate made it inviting and comfortable. But those obvious attractions were not what made Dantooine the attractive retreat it was.

No, that particular feature was never something an ordinary person would notice, a detail one could spot from orbit, or a footnote in a travel bulletin. It was an unseen quantity that drew in those who touched the Force. There were ruins and caves—an old Jedi academy, places where lightsaber crystals grew, hidden crypts full of ancient Sith secrets. And then there were the scars left in the Force—places where powerful acts of light and dark had forever altered the flow of the Force providing camouflage for those needing to hide. Dantooine was Force-null, but only because there was so much Light and Dark—and everything in between—woven into the planet’s surface and rooted down to its core that it promised invisibility in the Force for all who sought it. That was why Dantooine called out to the Force-sensitive beings of the galaxy attracting them from afar, awaking them from slumber, promising refuge.

That unseen special something was a big part of why Miss’Ouri Ot’Kla had made this grassy planet her home. The other reason, of course, was she had known the Emissary would eventually come to Dantooine. She would come to hide, but in meeting the Hunter she would make her home and choose to live again. And she did. The Hunter had lived and loved and ultimately lost her life unwittingly playing the part in the prophecy the Force had set out for her millennia ago. Ever since then, it had been Miss’Ouri’s duty to keep watch. And now...

Now her home had become a base of operations. More than a refuge for injured Winchesters and a handful of other Hunters who sought her counsel—those few who didn’t shy away from her Jedi past—it was the new home of the Protectorate. The organization was becoming centralized in a way it hadn’t been since its inception. Fittingly, it was only a few kilometers away, after all, in the depths of a hidden cave, where the first Protectorate had gathered to create the _Aequetas Animae_ , imbuing a single crystal with more unique Force properties and control than any other crystal before or since. And it was that crystal that was protected, guarded, and prepared until finally the Emissary awoke and forged a lightsaber with the stone at its heart. Ultimately, she bequeathed to the one who would change everything, the Fulcrum of the Force, creating an unparalleled, unequalled, and indelible bond between the Healer and his blade.

And now the Protectorate gathered again, the _Aequetas Animae_ once more in its midst, and Dantooine was its refuge.

~~~

As the grey of pre-dawn gave way to rosy gold of morning, sunbeams broke over the rolling hills and pooled in valleys where they reflected off the prismatic dew drops collected on grasses. She glanced out the windows at the front of her house, the side not built into a hill, where the courtyard spread out. In a few hours, it would be filled with the crackling and snapping of lightsaber blades, the occasional thud of people or objects hitting the ground, and the faint hum of the Force rippling in the air. The space was quickly becoming a regular training ground.

She sighed. Even now as they slept, she could feel the turmoil in the minds of those around her.

The new Protectorate. The current generation, one Prophecy faced and disaster averted, now preparing for the future...

The Future... it was an idea new to Miss’Ouri. After spending her entire life preparing; searching the Force for answers about the Prophecy; trying to be prepared for whatever the Chosen One, Healer, or Guide might need; it came as a shock—now all that was behind them. Or was it... No, that wasn’t true. Azazel and his associates had been stopped, dispatched for all eternity, their plot to permanently shift the balance of the Force to the Dark Side thwarted, and with it the threat of destroying the Universe. But the fallout—the effects—was only beginning to manifest itself. It would be some time before her new charges recovered. For some, she thought with a sigh as her mind brushed against one particularly burdened mind, it would likely be a lifelong process.

It was quieter around here than it had been over the last month, well, the last year, really, ever since John Winchester showed up on her doorstep wondering if his deepest fears were finally coming true. Her once-quiet existence had been filled with a never-ending stream of people and adventures, her door revolving as they came and went. But now, some of them had gone back out into the universe. Bobby was back on Myrkr, once again cultivating his contacts and alliances on the planet that housed the unusually powerful Force-repelling lizards. Master Gariq Shran had left for Onderon almost a week before, and if his schedule went according to plan, he would now be meeting with Jedi Master and Councilmember Yoda.

But Dean and Cas Tiel were still here, and Dean, by the feel of his dreams, was going to learn many uncomfortable truths about himself today. His powers were finally setting into their own, and now he had to learn to accept the person he was, the person he had become, and figure out what it would mean for the future.

Sam Winchester had returned as well, after months on the run, feared lost to the Dark Side once and for all. Now, the _Chosen One_ had to learn to adjust to being a person again rather than just a name in a prophecy. He had to accept what he had done, and most of all, forgive himself. Otherwise he would never recover, never learn who he _could_ be, what he could do with the Force, or accept what he meant to his family. His would be a long road, but Miss’Ouri had full confidence he could rise to meet it with a little bit of support.

And then there was Mina, the newest addition. Her body had hosted Azazel’s secret acolyte, Ruby, and she had very nearly died in her attempt to reclaim her body and banish Ruby from the mortal plane. She carried as much guilt as Sam and an enormous amount of untapped, untrained potential. But like Sam, she would need to learn to forgive herself before she could find her place among the Protectorate. It would take time, but Miss’Ouri knew they could all make it and usher in a new era for the Protectorate, and for the Force itself… But first they could get through today.

~~~

Sam stepped out into the hallway only to duck back inside his room. When he was securely tucked away, back pressed to the wall just to the right of the doorway, his heart racing, he forced himself to let out a long, frustrated sigh. _Damn it!_ This was the fourth morning this week. It was ridiculous. As long as they were going to be here, training, at Miss’Ouri’s, chances were they were going to run into each other. The house wasn’t that big after all. But knowing that didn’t stop the flutter of panic in Sam’s chest followed by a brief ache of lust, a surge of shame, and pangs of panic and regret so strong they made his entire body tremble. Like it was doing right now...

He hadn’t felt this confused since his Force powers had first started to manifest a year before. And even then, he’d had rage to burn out and silence, every other emotion. Now...

Now, Sam knew how misplaced and destructive his rage had been. He understood now what Miss’Ouri had been trying to tell him. He hadn’t gotten himself in trouble— _nearly destroyed the Universe_ —because he’d used powers that drew from the Dark Side. It wasn’t allowing himself to _feel_ rage, or any of the other natural emotional responses to the string of life-altering events he’d endured, that nearly spelled his doom. It wasn’t his personality and outlook on life, well not alone, that did it. It was the combination—how he’d allowed rage to consume him, to drown out every other emotion, to silence logic. He’d ignored his other instincts and common sense in favor of giving in to the one thing that meant he didn’t have to feel anything else—that could keep reality from feeling _real_. He’d embraced a black-and-white view of the world, even as he’d learned the full spectrum of the Force. That was why he had fallen. That was why his actions were wrong and destructive. His dreams had been prophetic—visions. But he’d ignored Miss’Ouri’s warnings and advice. He’d tried to change the Prophecy, avoid the vision, not realizing all the while he’d been playing right into it. He’d very nearly brought about the exact version of events Darth Azazel had shown him, and it had nearly cost him not only Dean’s life, but his own life, his soul, and the life of every living being in the Universe.

To say he was a bit cautious and wary about using his powers now would be an understatement. And that—in addition to grief, embarrassment, guilt, regret, shame, and fear—was why he was avoiding Mina, hiding out in his room every time she walked past.

Sam sighed again and smacked his head back against the wall. “Suck it up, Sam,” he muttered. “If you’re going to take responsibility for what you did and move on after Jess—” his breath hitched as he mumbled her name, “you’ve gotta apologize to Mina, get to know her.”

Of course, that was assuming Mina would have anything to do with him. He was half afraid she’d lash out with the Force and kill him on sight if he tried to talk with her. After all, she’d just begun her training and didn’t have complete control over her Force abilities yet. Who was to say she wouldn’t accidentally kill him just from the emotional shock alone? He’d deserve it. He wasn’t sure how much she remembered or could discern of what Ruby had done with her body, but he was pretty sure she’d figured out he and Ruby and—he cringed at the thought—Azazel—had been lovers.

The chrono in Miss’Ouri’s living room chimed, letting him know it was late enough that if he didn’t get moving and _mingle_ with the rest of the house’s inhabitants soon, someone would come looking for him—probably Dean, who would be bad enough, but maybe Cas, whose presence would lead to an almost unbearably awkward situation. There was nothing quite like being coddled by his brother’s five-thousand-year-old partner to make him feel like a daft nerf herder.

Reluctantly, Sam pried himself off the wall and hit the door control. He let out an involuntary gasp and jumped back when he saw who was waiting for him. “Rub—Mina!” Sam corrected himself, stomach hitching at his mistake.

An annoyed squawk drew his attention away from Mina and down to where Chevy was standing by her side.

“Uh, hi Chevy,” Sam stammered. “What brings you here?” His question was posed to them both or to neither; he wasn’t really sure. He spoke while staring at the wall across the hall, eyes unfocused. Seriously, how could he have slipped up and started to call Mina ‘Ruby’?

While they’d shared the same body, Mina was almost the perfect opposite of Ruby—She was calm and reserved where Ruby had been agitated and boisterous, in control where Ruby was hanging on by a thread, kind where Ruby was mean, and observant where Ruby was expressive. Her eyes were completely different—a much softer blue unmarred by the trademark Sith tinge of yellow that had crept into Ruby’s eyes like veins of false gold tarnishing the stone around them.

Chevy squawked again and rocked forward, before trundling away.

 _Just great._ Sam got the message loud and clear. Apparently, it wasn’t enough for Mina to want to confront him. _Chevy_ wanted it too. And Sam, well… after what had happened between him and Chevy, he couldn’t very well ignore her wishes. Not if he wanted to live with himself.

Now, she’d cornered him. He felt like a trapped womp rat; Mina was in a speeder barreling down the canyon, and she had him in her sights.

Terrified, breath burning his throat and heart pounding against his ribs, he pressed the control to open the door. “Mina, c—come in,” he stammered.

~~~

  
_Royal Palace, Iziz, Onderon_

Jedi Master Gariq Shran picked idly at the hems of his robe’s sleeves as he waited for the turbolift doors to open. He was on Onderon, of all places, in the royal palace, riding up to the landing pad on the palace roof. Legend (and a bit of history too) had it this was the site of a pivotal battle in the history of the Republic... in the history of the Jedi... And now here he was, prepared to make history again, perhaps.

 _Jedi_... For as long as he could remember, that word had been a part of him—his identity. An inexorable truth and part of his _self_. And then—almost a year ago now—he’d begun to realize the Jedi weren’t all they pretended to be. They could turn as blind an eye to the destruction of the Universe as anyone. He’d spent so many years as a Shadow, hunting down the Sith’s unmentionables, trying to keep the Dark Side in check, only to find out the Dark Side was running amok, unchecked by the Jedi, while nameless, faceless, Hunters—often with no ability to touch the Force—risked and gave their lives to avert tragedies and Dark uprisings that fell below the Jedi High Council’s notice.

Worse than that, the Council _knew_ of a prophecy that foretold the rise and return of perhaps the most insidious Sith Master to ever live—only to _ignore_ and deny it even as it unfolded around them, threatening to tear the Force and the very galaxy out of existence. Acknowledging it would mean admitting to the Jedi Order’s mistakes and atrocities committed long ago. So, the Jedi sat and did nothing, then actively worked against the only one who could stop the Prophecy’s fulfillment, all to save face and maintain their illusion of superiority and control.

A little more than two months ago, Shran had found himself faced with an impossible dilemma: toe the Jedi Order’s line, or abandon the Order and defend the Force. In the end, it wasn’t even a contest. He knew where his loyalty lay. He’d made his choice...

Made his choice, and now what was he? He had sworn allegiance to the Protectorate, a tiny, secret, barely organized, but millennia old, sect of Force users committed to protecting balance in the Force. He’d taken up arms against the Jedi Council and the Temple’s forces. But he’d never formally left the Order. He didn’t have a bust in the Archive memorializing his leave… but then again, neither did so many others.

Shran no longer knew who he was; the Jedi part of his identity was hollowed out, displaced—he didn’t seem to fit in his own skin anymore.

And now he was here, on Onderon, where he’d been so many months before, tracking—he thought—a destructive Dark Side user, or perhaps Dark artifact, he’d believed had been tied to one of the Winchesters.

Of course, if he’d succeeded, he would have dashed any hope of saving the Universe from Darth Azazel’s destruction.

Now he was here, summoned by none other than a member of the Jedi High Council for a meeting. He was _afraid_... Not that long ago, he would have pushed down his fear and denied it, seeing it as a seed and tool of the Dark Side. Now he owned it, examined it. Looked at its roots and origins and did his best to assess what it meant.

As much as he _had_ made peace with leaving the Order, he still sought approval... Not of everyone, but at least of _this_ Master, and he didn’t want to be misunderstood. No... he didn’t want the Protectorate to be misunderstood. He would feel failure if he couldn’t get someone within the Order to understand.

That was his fear. Acknowledging it, he set it aside and took a deep breath, drawing the Force into himself and calming. He would know soon enough whether he could succeed, and even if everything went sideways, he had another reason to be on Onderon. Sian Nunb—who was already Protectorate and at least partly trained—and her family, which might include other Force sensitives, lived just a few klicks away in Iziz, the capital city.

As he stepped out of the turbolift into the bright midmorning sunlight, he immediately saw the Master he had come to meet. Hovering a few feet off the ground, diminutive lightsaber strapped to the side of his tan, homespun robes was Master Yoda. Short, green-skinned, and already several centuries old, he was by far the most respected (and most powerful, knowledgeable, wise, and experienced) member of the Jedi High Council. Shran still believed if Yoda had been there on Coruscant at any of a number of points during the Azazel Crisis, the entire situation would have unfolded differently—for the better. He’d tried to reach Yoda, but had only succeeded in sending a message, its receipt delayed so Yoda could not help in time. And now Yoda had summoned him here.

Shran set out across the white stone rooftop towards Master Yoda, who appeared to be surveying the scene below. “Master Yoda, you summoned me?” he called out as he approached.

The green, hovering man didn’t flinch or start, but his ears did twitch, turning towards Shran and lowering himself to the rooftop. “Master Shran, received your message, I did. Grave and unfortunate were its contents. With bravery, honor, and valor, acted you have. So, discuss with you the implications of recent events, I must.”

Master Yoda’s rather infamously stilted speech pattern was jarringly familiar and _soothing_ to Shran. It reminded him of his childhood, days as a youngling under Master Yoda’s tutelage. He’d been no more than three or four, practicing basic levitation and telekinesis with the others in his age group to the lyrical, lilting banter of Master Yoda’s sing-song voice. Master Yoda had told him he was _special_ even among all the younglings gathered at the temple, little Gariq had shown unusual talents early on. It was Master Yoda who had identified Shran’s ability to _see_ Force signatures, Master Yoda who had trained him to use it, Master Yoda who had helped him to keep his abilities a secret—even though now Shran got the sense Yoda really wished those secrets didn’t have to exist. And it was Master Yoda who’d noticed Shran’s ability to _sense_ the Dark Side, detect objects touched by Sith, gravitate towards nonsentient beings that used the Dark Side... He’d recognized the talent and helped Shran to cultivate it into the skills of a Shadow. Had Master Yoda known the role Shran was to play? Was it conscious? Or had the Force guided him to guide Shran?

Yoda had said Shran was the most talented Jedi in that area since Mary Campbell...

Shran remembered her now with shocking clarity. Dean’s mother—Dean and Sam’s mother—the Emissary. The one for whom the Protectorate _made_ the _Aequetas Animae_. A crystal forged out of the Force itself, waiting for thousands of years, passed on from one generation to the next, eventually making its way to Master Joran, so he could give it to Mary, and she could bequeath it to Dean creating an unparalleled, inseparable, unfathomable, sacred bond. As a child, Shran had wanted to be like her. He’d secretly hoped—when he was very small, before Mary disappeared and was presumed dead—that when he was a little older, perhaps she might choose him as her Padawan.

Master Yoda had seemed amused by that; or at least Shran had thought so at the time. He’d let his secret aspiration and borderline infatuation slip after moral history lessons one day. Yoda had tutted at him, told him a Jedi should focus on where he was, what he was doing, right now, not look to the future. Shran had asked if he could have Mary as his Master when he was old enough, and Yoda had just said “we will see,” and left it at that.

Looking back, Shran could see the sadness and trepidation in Master Yoda’s voice and understood the deflection for what it was. Had Master Yoda known? Could he see Mary Campbell’s destiny scrolled across her soul like Shran could see a person’s identity written in the Force they touched? Had Master Yoda known what would become of him?

At the same time, he felt guilty. Bereft at the memories, or rather at the comfort they now failed to bring. What had been pure joy at the time—days filled with endless fascination and discovery; mentally, physically, and emotionally challenging lessons; new powers; new people to befriend—he now could see as a ploy of sorts to keep him busy, keep him from feeling the loss of his family until the connection to them was so muted and buried it was all but forgotten. He’d thought he was so lucky to be chosen, to be a Jedi—and now he _knew_ that was true, at least from a certain point of view. But not for the reasons he had believed.

Compared to children like Mina, or even Sam and Dean, who grew up out of the way and off the scanners, who would grow “too old” before anyone realized what they were, what they could do, who they could be, he _was_ lucky. He’d had the opportunity to fully learn about the Force and who he was in it. But now he also realized the cost. While the Minas and Sams and Deans of the galaxy (okay, well maybe _not_ Sam, but Dean at least) were busy forming life-long, strong familial bonds and discovering the unfathomable power of unconditional love, he was living alone, disconnected from the distant memory of family. They had discovered their sentience, their personalities, their place in society, their _humanity_ for lack of a less-speciesist word—while he’d been whittled down to only who he was in the Force. An instrument of the Force to defend the people. But not one _of_ the people...

“Plagues you now, it does,” Yoda murmured sagely.

Shran shuddered, blinking in the bright sunlight—he’d slipped into a Force trance, lost in memory and revelation, so completely immersed he’d lost touch with he here and now. He was standing next to the edge of the roof, hands resting on the polished white stone of the railing a good 10 meters away from where Master Yoda had been hovering when Shran had first emerged from the turbolift. He looked down. Yoda was standing next to him, looking up with wide, bright eyes that seemed to twinkle with a mixture of amusement and sorrow.

“Yes,” Shran answered simply. He could _feel_ that Master Yoda understood what Shran had contemplated in his mind’s eye, as if maybe Yoda had seen it too. “We are... splintered. Fractured as beings. I am only now beginning to understand the loss.” He looked back out across the expanse of Iziz as it stretched around the Palace and spread to the city walls... he was looking at Sian Nunb’s house. He could see the disruption in the pattern of buildings, the melted scar in the earth, the _wound_ in the Force Darth Azazel had created when he killed Sian’s mother in an attempt to destroy the Marker and hide the Runes. The first time Shran had come here he had misunderstood. He had _missed_ so much. Now he could see it. He was _there_ , in the room, in the eerie not-dark-darkness, the unnatural fugue state of the Force, when Sam Winchester had flowwalked into the moment of Azazel’s attack and learned—saw, absorbed—the message he needed to know. Shran was there now too. A shadow. He had always been there in that moment, he just hadn’t known it until now. Sam had not known what he was. Shran had not felt the presence of his future self when he had visited the scene. Azazel had missed them both.

“The path you walk, easy, it is not. Unsettled are you. But impressed, am I. When a child you were, I never imagined how fully you would grasp your potential,” Master Yoda’s words pulled him back again.

Shran turned, and suddenly he was back on the palace rooftop, and the melting flames and sulfurous stink of Azazel’s corruption were gone. Pure open sky and pristine marble surrounded him. Only now he was seeing in Force sight—the echoes and scars of five thousand years, dozens of battles, accidents, triumphs—death and life and betrayal and hope... all played out here before his eyes. Every person performed each action distinctly, every action left its unique mark on the Force, and the Force forever changed the physical world it touched. In an instant he was everywhere throughout all time. Seeing and being and yet, nowhere. He blinked, and again he was back.

Master Yoda was staring him in the eye. “Fearful was I of the burden you carried. Not certain if you would be able to master such gifts.”

“You knew...” Shran whispered.

“Protectorate, I was not, but the Lost Prophecy I did study; stumbled upon it in my youth,” Yoda replied, turning back to the railing to look out over the city, lifting himself effortlessly, so he hovered just behind the railing again. “My place to interfere it was _not_ ,” Yoda elaborated. “Prophecies are tricky, changing...”

“They never mean what you think, so if you try too hard to derail them, you may suffer exactly what you seek to avoid.”

“You have been speaking with Miss’Ouri, heh?” Master Yoda scoffed in ammusement. He inclined his head towards Shran. “How is she?”

“Miss’Ouri Ot’Kla is well,” Shran replied, feeling a thrill of surprise that Yoda knew her, and then realizing his foolishness. Master Yoda had been training Jedi for several centuries. Of _Course_ he knew who Miss’Ouri was beyond the vague notion of a deserter with a bust in the Archive marking her departure from the Order..

“Heh, trained you well, she has.” Yoda’s face crinkled up in a smile, before a cloud fell over his eyes, his ears flattening to the side as he pressed his lips together. “Unfortunate times are these. Disaster averted, but there is so much more to come. Such is the way of the Force, always changing, shifting, but have the Jedi slipped too much? Are we twisted in our ways?” His gaze turned back out over the city, away from Master Shran.

“I—” Shran broke off, surprised at his own false start, then more shocked with the realization he _knew_ what to say, how to continue. “I do not think recent actions of the Council represent the sentiments of a majority of the Jedi, nor even the wisdom and opinion of the Council at large.” He paused, swallowing hard, sneaking a sideways glance at Yoda to see how he would react, but the Jedi Master was listening, patiently, one ear cocked towards Shran, his eyes focused in the distance. “Lord Azazel almost won. He almost shifted the balance in the Universe entirely to the Dark Side, and in doing so, he almost destroyed the Force and all life with it. Part was due to his own planning and the arrogance, dishonesty, and shirking of responsibility of a handful of powerful Jedi five thousand years before. The Order’s own traditions did play a part as well—the policies on familial bonds and against training older Force sensitives—it gave Azazel’s message leverage it would not have otherwise had. Gave truth to the lie. And part of his near success was due to the actions of two very vocal, opinionated, and power-hungry Jedi who happen to sit on the Jedi Council. They cultivate fear and respect in equal measure, and use creative—and questionable—interpretations of the laws governing the Council and the Order to get their way. They were so certain of their rightness and righteousness, they closed their minds to the Truth the Force bore out and ignored the signs. They ignored the Prophecy and manipulated their colleagues and those entrusted to their care.” Shran glanced sideways again.

This time Master Yoda met his gaze and held it.

Shran began to speak again, knowing Master Yoda wanted to hear his words, needed to know Shran’s opinion. “I do not believe the Council is evil or the Order is unsalvageable. My eyes are open now, and I cannot deny—I oppose many of the Order’s policies. Their understanding of the Force is ineptly two-dimensional. But when I fought back, I was not lashing out against the Jedi, but against two men who would have destroyed the Universe and managed to torture and condemn numerous innocent along the way.” Shran took a deep breath, and for the first time noticed the rich summer sweetness of the air, the _life_ the breeze carried with it. _Have I been so burdened with my guilt, so confused in my identity, that I blocked this all out?_ he wondered. But yes, it must be. Speaking his mind to Master Yoda, face to face, as he had wished to do so many times over the last year—like he tried to do in that recorded message sent from the communications room near the top of the Tranquility spire right before the Universe changed for him forever—had released something inside him. He had been _holding back_... withdrawing himself from the Force, almost ashamed to feel its flow. He had learned so many new skills, watched his abilities bloom and grow, and yet... yet...

Until now, he had still been missing it. The breathing, living pulse of the Force produced by every lifeform on a near infinite scale—the Force was _everywhere_ and it welcomed him.

Master Yoda nodded at him, seeming to understand what was happening. When Shran had settled, adjusting to the new feel of the world around him, Yoda spoke, “Responsible for the disaster and the state of the Council, Masters Uriel and Zachariah are.”

“Yes, that is what I believe,” Shran agreed.

“The others on the Council agree with you. Agree with you, I do.”

“So, what...” Shran didn’t know what to suggest.

“Removed from the Council, they will be. A vote of no confidence we have taken. Master Uriel has admitted to his mistake.” Yoda’s ears twitched. “He has sought refuge, meditating and researching on Ossus. But Master Zachariah—” Yoda trailed off, his tone grave and strangely uncertain. He pursed his mouth, his brow furrowed in a scowl.

“Zachariah doesn’t believe he’s done anything wrong.” Shran knew that—he’d seen how _obsessed_ Zachariah was, how unreasonably confident in himself and his mission. But it was more than that... “Master Yoda, Master Zachariah had the Beckonstone and a... box, another Sith artifact in his possession for an undetermined amount of time. I do not know if the artifacts were responsible, but I believe his connection with the Force is dangerously unbalanced. He is consumed with his lust for power and control...”

“Yes, fallen to the Dark Side, has he.” Yoda’s scowl deepened, and he shook his head as if trying to chase away a particularly haunting memory.

“He tried to turn the Council against you and those who agreed with you.”

Yoda did not respond, but his presence _shifted_ in the Force.

Shran could feel the _dismay_ bleeding from Master Yoda and suddenly he understood.

“Some doubted, so you showed them the ysalimiri, of their placement in the Sith Containment levels. You showed them Dean Winchester’s cell. You explained what the loss of connection to the Force did to him, and what it nearly did to the Force. You saw it as if you had been there, and so did they, because they all _felt_ the Force tearing itself apart that day. But Zachariah didn’t show remorse or regret. And when the others on the Council agreed with you, he... lashed out and fled.” Shran could see the events playing out before his mind’s eye. An echo of memory preserved in the Force and passed on. The rift Zachariah’s actions had caused within the Council had reverberated throughout the Force, shifting things—the Order was no longer quite the same. While it wouldn’t change overnight or eradicate its shortcomings in a day, the seeds of awareness had been sown. From now on, there would always be those willing to challenge the prohibition against training older students, those who would question and push back against the practice of taking children from their families.

“Another bust in the Archives there will be. Fearful was he. Hateful and arrogant, he placed himself above others until in his eyes they were equals no more,” Yoda said at last.

 _Ah_ , Zachariah had become an embodiment of the caricatured version of Jedi Darth Azazel had tried to sell to the masses. What irony that Zachariah’s selfishness had bolstered Azazel’s grab for power.

They stood together in silence, feeling the Force shift around them, while a breeze stirred up fallen blossom petals that littered the streets below.

“And what of me?” Shran asked.

“Ah, what _of_ you indeed. Need new Councilmembers, do we. Wise and open minded, are you. The Council has nominated you for membership,” Yoda said with a wry chuckle.

“Me?” Shran gaped, taken aback. “I have sworn my allegiance to the Protectorate.” He stilled. “I will not forget what I have learned; I will never agree with the Order’s recruiting and training protocols.”

“Ask you to watch over the Council, Miss’Ouri did. See what we are doing?” Yoda cocked his head, “What better way than to sit on the Council.”

Shran could feel his face contorting in confusion. “You’re serious? You really—”

“Not I, not alone. A unanimous vote, it was,” Yoda corrected. “Value your perspective, do we.”

“But my duties to the Protectorate—Master Yoda, I have Force sensitives to find and train, descendents of original Protectorate members to locate, meditation and _research_ into the ancient texts. There are so few of us; we cannot afford to lose any of the information or wisdom that has survived the past 5,000 years, lest the universe face a similar twilight in the future—”

“And tend to your Protectorate duties, you will.”

“How?” Shran asked, running his hand through the tight curls of his close-cut hair as he tried to make sense of this latest twist of events.

“Not mutually exclusive, are they. If you find a student suited to the Jedi Order, induct them we will. But if better suited for the Protectorate, are they, arrange for their training, you will.” Master Yoda made it sound so simple. He was also clearly leaving out some details.

“So is that what I will be doing? Searching for sensitives?” He definitely would need to do some of that for the Protectorate, but his expertise was in tracking down Sith and other Dark Side relics and (usually) avoiding catastrophes. Since meeting the Winchesters he’d become aware of how inept at it he was, but he’d been learning from Cas and Miss’Ouri and Dean had been teaching him Hunter techniques—which he had to admit were very effective and often more accurate at both hunting down and determining the source of Dark Side disturbances. Jedi arrogance had previously blinded him to considering many of the scientific and technological resources beyond DEDs. He couldn’t give all that up, not now, no matter how helpful having a legitimate seat on the Council might make some of his other responsibilities.

Yoda was making a face at him. He made a scoffing sound— _oh_ apparently Yoda was amused.

“Among your duties it will be, but not alone. Master Shran, wish to lose your expertise and skill in hunting the Dark Side, the Council does not. Wish to interfere with your responsibilities to the Protectorate, I do not.”

“So you’ll just... what? Let me be a double agent?” Shran spluttered.

“Consider the Protectorate an Enemy the Jedi do not.” Yoda glared at him. “That sentiment to Master Zachariah alone belonged.”

“You don’t want anything else from me?” Shran asked, his voice rising in surprise. He turned away from the expanse of the city to face Master Yoda.

“Your expertise, guidance, and counsel, value do I. If catastrophic error the Jedi are poised to make, stop us, you will.” Yoda sounded almost amused as he spoke, but there was an underlying current of solemnity in his words that cut into Shran’s gut sure and swift as a vibroblade.

“If you’d been on Coruscant—you would have believed me. Sithspit, you would have believed Dean Winchester, and you certainly would have known Cas Tiel was _not_ James Novak. If I didn’t know the timing was out of Master Zachariah’s control, I would have bet good credits he engineered your absence,” Shran admitted bitterly.

Yoda tipped his head to the side; his expressive face looked almost hurt. “The Universe has a sense of humor, some have said. The Force permeates everything, binds us together. So great was the pull of the Dark Side, twisted events to suit its needs it did.” He frowned, looking down at the rooftop below his hovering feet. “Master Zachariah violated protocol. Delayed reports and messages, did he. Unsettled was the Force. I did not know the progression of events until your message. My instincts—I should have trusted them more readily.”

“Master Yoda, surely this was not your fault!” Shran exclaimed.

Yoda looked up, his eyes sorrowful. “My fault, no. But a lesson I have learned. Yes, even Jedi Masters keep learning.” There was a twinkle in his eye and levity behind the heft of wisdom, as if he was sharing a great secret with Shran. “Even I make mistakes. Trusted in the Force, I should have. Blinded was I by my faith in the Council.” He shook his head again, the frown leaving his features. “Will you accept the Council’s nomination?”

“I—” Really, Shran couldn’t say ‘no.’ “The Council really won’t use this to try to get control of the Protectorate?”

“Master Shran, no other Councilors know of the Protectorate.” Truth. Absolute. Even after all this, the Protectorate was still very much a secret society.

“What about Dean and Cas—and Sam and the others for that matter. What happens when the Council decides they need to rein in unauthorized Force users or chase Hunters because they are engaging in ‘dangerous vigilante work’?” He couldn’t accept if he would inevitably be forced into a position where he would have to betray either the Order or the Protectorate. He knew which _side_ he would choose, and he knew how the Order would respond to that. He couldn’t in good conscience accept—

“Protect them, we will. Even if they need to appear before the Council. You have my word.” Master Yoda extended a three-fingered green hand to Shran.

If Yoda gave his word, he would take the steps to back it up. Letting out a long sigh, Shran took Yoda’s hand and shook it, squeezing firmly. “Then I accept.”

“Good, good,” Yoda approved. “Now, I believe you must pay Miss Nunb a visit. Send my regards to Miss’Ouri.”

Shran laughed; Master Yoda sounded so pleased, and Shran felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “It will be my honor,” Shran reassured. Maybe forging this new future, this new partnership, a new path for the Protectorate, wouldn’t be so impossible after all.

~~~

  
_Dantooine_

Sam wanted to run the moment Mina had crossed the threshold. Run or hide. Every movement, every breath, every step closer to him was a reminder, a juxtaposition of who Mina was against the Sith he’d known.

The tall, lithe blonde girl—no, _woman_ —moved gracefully as she slipped farther into the room. So unlike Ruby. She was dressed in a simple blue tunic and beige pants that looked comfortable enough to be pyjamas, but he knew from observation they were her training clothes. She didn’t have a lightsaber strapped to her hip, so presumably she didn’t intend to kill him where he stood. Of course, a Jedi didn’t need weapons to kill; he knew that. After all, his first experience touching the Force had involved controlling a Dark Side–fueled inferno and turning it back on its creator, incinerating Darth Azazel’s host body and reducing his apartment to slag and ash. Still... she looked—he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think the almost _pleading_ look in Mina’s eyes was a precursor to a Force attack.

She was in the room now, in _Sam’s_ room, and he felt trapped. The door was still open; technically he could cut and run if he wanted, but that wouldn’t solve anything. He couldn’t decide if he should close the door or leave it open. Would she want privacy? Or would she feel like Sam was trapping her, threatening her—maybe she thought he was so fixated on her body that he didn’t realize or didn’t care about the difference between her and Ruby? Or perhaps she thought he was such a horrible, depraved man that he actually _enjoyed_ that—after all, he’d slept with her—with _Ruby_ and he hadn’t even stopped to think, to see if her body belonged to her.

Sam shuddered, sense memories of Azazel possessing him, using his body to— _fuck_ —Ruby running through him. _By the Force!_ How could he ever live with himself after that? He had done that to Mina. He hadn’t intended to at the time. Sam had just been miserable, lonely, lost, dejected, depressed, isolated, borderline-suicidal and oh yeah, desperate, and he’d latched on the stories Ruby was telling like a lifeline. Bought every word that slipped from her lips, consumed every lie like it was a Republic Day feast, prided himself on how _right_ he’d been—running into her web like a glitbiter in Kessel. He’d been to _angry_ to stop and think or even care if he was right. He’d seen the warning signs, known he was rejecting not only everything his father (and Dean and Bobby and Miss’Ouri, and even _Cas_ had taught him), but also his own gut instinct, but he’d done it anyway. He’d had no remorse. No second thoughts—well not until much, much later, and then he’d dismissed them out of hand. And all that time he’d been _making love_ to Mina’s stolen body. How could he _live_ with himself? The bile rose in his throat so fast he forgot all about the door and Mina standing on the wrong side of it and instead whirled around and ducked towards the built in waste receptacle just inside the doorway.

He tripped, landing hard on his knees, his palms catching part of his weight on the edge of the bin, its narrow edge biting into his hands with the force of his landing. He deserved it. He deserved everything Azazel had done to him, all the ways he’d used Sam’s body. It would have been a suitable punishment for Sam to be trapped there in his mind always aware, suffering through everything Azazel did—if only it hadn’t hurt anyone else, or destroyed the Universe. He wretched into the container, his stomach emptying, cramping, vomiting over and over until he was out of breath and was a hairsbreadth away from fainting. He couldn’t even summon the Force to stabilize himself.

“Sam?” Mina’s faint voice—so kind, warm, gentle, serious, and unlike Ruby—broke through the haze of pain and remorse.

He wanted to apologize. Now he’d gone and puked in front of her. The door was still open. Mina was still _in his room_. He didn’t know what she wanted, and he was still a horrible person—

A warm hand pressed lightly against his neck, startling Sam into a hiccup. The hand—Mina’s hand—steadied, and then stroked, almost petting down his back.

It was so— _wrong_! Mina of all people shouldn’t be giving him comfort. But somehow, for some reason, she was.

“Sam, are you all right? What’s wrong?” She asked, her hand still moving along Sam’s back in a soothing combination between a pat and a rub.

“I—I’m sorry,” Sam stammered. And blast, “sorry” didn’t begin to cover how he felt. He retched again. “I am so sorry. I—this isn’t—I’m sorry for puking too. Know it’s cowardly and only I’m to blame, but I’m really not trying to shirk my responsibility or avoid this...” Sam gulped, regretted it, and spat into the bin. At least it was self-cleaning. “I mean, I won’t deny it. I was trying to avoid you, before, but now, when you came to the door, I was going to talk. I still am going to talk—” Only talking might not be such a great idea. “Or listen, d—definitely listen,” he amended. “I—” he didn’t know what else to say. Empty words and apologies couldn’t undo the horrors he’d helped inflict on Mina and her body while it was in Ruby’s possession.

“Sam, what are you talking about? Do you need someone? Dean—” Mina started.

Sam choked at the mention of Dean’s name; yeah, like he deserved his brother’s companionship now after what he’d done. He’d probably torture Dean just by coming contact with him. Dean’s psychometric abilities meant brotherly hugs and affection might as well have been chucked out the nearest airlock of a ship in hyperspace—completely irretrievably gone, never to be found again. The realization stabbed white-hot in Sam’s already tormented stomach and made him curl further in on himself, pulling away from Mina’s hand— _which had been on his body, touching him, ins—_

“Or, or not Dean then, maybe Miss’Ouri?” Mina finished her suggestion, her voice sliding from confused to really concerned to even _more_ confused.

And that was just so very, very wrong, that Mina should be worried about _Sam_... unless... _Sithspit!_ She’d said something about not knowing... Could she possibly _not_ know what Ruby had done... “Oh no, don’t you know? I—Ruby, when she stole your body, she and I... had sex. Relationship,” he stammered, “and then Azazel, he and she were,” he made a wavy, swirling gesture with his right hand, hoping it got the point across. He couldn’t focus on much else. “I—I thought you knew, and I know sorry doesn’t cut it, but I swear I’ve been trying to stay out of your way, and I know that’s i-irresponsible, but I thought maybe it would be better. It wasn’t all me hiding, but I knew eventually we’d have to talk, or I’d have to listen and you’d talk, so would you just tell me what you want for me to do, and I’ll do it. I mean _anything_.” The words came out so fast they seemed to approach hyperspace speeds. Sam was barely aware of what he was saying, but at that moment, he meant it. Seriously. If Mina had asked him to fall on his lightsaber or stand trial or jump off a cliff or let her shoot him, he would have gone along with it. It wasn’t like the universe needed Sam for anything after all, and he certainly deserved worse. It was hard to breathe or focus, and the room was swimming around him.

“Dean!” Someone—Mina—screamed the word next to Sam’s ear, and he thought he felt something ripple through the Force.

He wasn’t paying attention, though, because at that moment his mind seemed to spin through everything he’d done since Azazel had showed up at his apartment and the wave of revulsion that swept through him as he saw and _felt_ it all shook him with a head-to-toe shudder. His stomach revolted again, and he clung to the receptacle for support, his mind fuzzily aware that it probably wasn’t good that he wasn’t getting any air in his lungs. His heart felt sluggish as it slammed against his ribs, and he was pretty sure his mouth was full of something metallic and tangy.

There were footsteps, panicked voices. He thought he heard Mina trying to explain something and sounding more confused. Cas’s voice. Miss’Ouri...  
“Oh _blast_ , Sam! Sam?”

Dean. Dean’s voice. So close it was by his ear. But why would Dean care about him? He deserved whatever was happening.

“Shit! Cas, help me with my gloves?” Dean was saying.

Cas might have said something, but it didn’t permeate the haze in Sam’s mind. He heard a rustling, fumbling sound.

“Just when I got them back on... why’d I even bother,” Dean muttered.

Sam’s eyes were closed; his ears seemed to be whistling. All he could hear was a high-pitched whine that sounded remarkably like the targeting lock-proximity sensor alarm on the _Dream_.

Then hands, warm, rough, familiar—Dean’s hands, were touching his neck, snaking under the hem of his robe’s sleeve to touch his arm. Skin-to-skin contact... Shouldn’t that _hurt_ Dean or cause him to feel what Sam was thinking—whatever emotional baggage or strong memories...

Sam felt something surge and flare between him and Dean—he’d felt it when he was dying before. Well, actually both when he’d actually died on Manaan and when he’d been possessed and Dean had stabbed him to kill Azazel... only this time he was more aware, the sensation felt _closer_ since he was suddenly more in tune with his brother than they’d been in months, maybe years. A barrier between them had been taken away, and now he could feel his emotions and memories bleeding into Dean, only Dean wasn’t surprised or revolted, but filled with understanding and familiarity that flowed back into Sam—along with something. He noticed his belly felt warm and tingly, and then he _sagged_ against the receptacle and slipped into blackness.

~~~

 _Finally!_ Sam was unconscious. Dean pulled his little brother off the waste recycler and let him settle flopped against Dean’s chest. Contact with Sam had always been easier—not quite as flawless as with Cas, but smooth, gentle, not overwhelmed by memories and strong emotions the way so many others were. Too much shared history, brotherly love, and desire for the other’s continued survival had given them a partial bond of sorts. It was easier now. Far easier than when Dean had healed Sam after killing Azazel. He’d figured that would be true—Dark Side energy pumping a sort of feedback into the connection, something that separated Dean and Sam. It was gone now, but in its place there was a... _self-loathing_ , sense of worthlessness that threatened to consume Sam. It had swelled so large, Sam’s connection to the Force was completely out of balance, tearing itself apart and in turn hurting Sam, reopening the wounds caused by Dean’s lightsaber, only bloodier.  
Dean couldn’t stifle his gasp. He hadn’t noticed this. Hadn’t noticed Sam slipping away, slipping into himself. Dean had been so wrapped up in his own problems, he’d neglected to focus on Sam, when once Sam’s health and wellbeing had been his first priority.

 _Sam grew up. He’s been taking care of himself, and you’ve finally accepted it,_ Cas coaxed through their bond.

Only Dean—and Cas—both knew it wasn’t that simple. Sam’s self-care as of late had been rather... well universally destructive. Dean had foolishly assumed that once Azazel was out of the picture, everything would go back to normal. Or this new normal. Azazel was the threat. He was influencing Ruby who was influencing Sam, and when Azazel had possessed Sam, he was directly controlling Sam. Vanquish Azazel, destroy his Force presence so he could never, ever come back, get rid of Ruby... voila, one nice healthy, healed Sam with no more Sith influences and no prophecies hanging over his head to send him spiraling off on another self-destructive path. _Right?_

Wrong. Dean was embarrassed, no _ashamed_ that he’d been so focused on the Prophecy, avoiding the Force apocalypse and the end of the Universe, defeating Azazel, and nursing his own wounds (physical and psychological), he hadn’t spared a thought to what Azazel and Ruby had _done_ to Sam. It was a rookie mistake. Any Hunter worth his weight in salt knew that the damage was never confined to the obvious, physical wounds. The Dark Side in its pure, unbalanced form didn’t just hurt, maim, and kill; it didn’t just burn down homes and crash speeders; it didn’t just _possess_ people and cause them to lash out at others, it ate at people’s souls. Left invisible scars on the inside of _all_ its victims and survivors—even (or perhaps especially) those it possessed or influenced. Sure, Sam was a trained Hunter and a partially trained Jedi / Force sensitive / Protectorate member / Chosen One (or whatever he wanted to call himself). But that didn’t make Sam immune to the damage of having a five-thousand-year-old Dark Lord of the Sith inside him, using his body, manipulating him, coercing him, and feeding him lies. It certainly didn’t undo the realization that Sam had been _wrong_ and had nearly killed himself and everyone he loved.

Dean wasn’t even sure why he hadn’t thought of it. No, he knew... he just didn’t want to admit. It was part genuine exhaustion—he’d been so focused on saving Sam by destroying Azazel, and so relieved when he’d accomplished that, he didn’t have enough energy to spare to really _think_ about what came next. And Sam had _seemed_ fine. He was actually less secretive and withdrawn than he’d been before he’d run away... but in hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best metric for comparison. The distance between them had become so... familiar, that Dean hadn’t questioned, hadn’t prodded further. Forget his gifts; he hadn’t even _asked_ if Sam was doing okay.

And now he was pouring his healing Force energy into Sam as he had not long ago. Only this time, the only _demon_ to vanquish was Sam’s own self-loathing. “Oh Sam,” he murmured to Sam’s unconscious form. He was feeling drained already, and the wounds—while severe—weren’t even that bad in the grand scheme of things. He let out a sickened snort. He’d actually healed worse in himself. Luckily Mina had called out for him and he’d _felt_ Sam’s anguish before it had gotten as bad as either of the times Sam had been run through with a lightsaber. And how ridiculously horrible was it that Sam had been skewered not once but twice? Dean clamped down on the bile that rose in his throat when the memory of stabbing Azazel in Sam’s body sprang to mind in full holovid glory.

“I—I don’t understand what happened,” Mina said shakily by his side. “I know he’s been avoiding me, and I came to try to—” her hands fluttered, “mend things. Start fresh? Or I guess just _start_ because Sam and I have never actually met. It’s just a whole bunch of knowing who the other person is and feeling guilty... Or at least I feel guilty. I came to apologize.”

Dean glanced over at her. She was crouched down beside him, crammed into the space between Sam and his bed, apparently trying very hard not to breathe in the foul stench coming from the not-yet-cleaned waste reclamator, if the sour, scrunched up expression and odd angle of her head were any indication. Sam, he guessed, his gut clenching a little more at the realization, probably hadn’t picked up on Mina’s guilt. He was flooded with his brother’s thoughts and emotions, and memories, and on top of it all was the overwhelming sea of _guilt_ Sam carried over his relationship with Ruby while she’d been living in Mina’s body. Sam blamed himself and himself alone, and—Dean gagged as the full-sense memory flooded through him—analogized the situation to Azazel’s... _rape_ of Sam, for lack of a better term, while he’d forced Sam to watch and feel while he and Ruby rekindled their five-thousand-year-old flame. No wonder Sam had been sick.

“I don’t think Sam thought you had anything to apologize for, Mina,” Dean said seriously.

“Wh—what? Then why did he—” she looked down at Sam’s bloody body, stricken.

“He’s blaming himself for what he and Ruby did while she had your body,” Dean said, voice so low it was barely more than a whisper. “Help me get him to the bed?”

“Sure,” Mina said nervously, scrambling to her feet and almost tripping in her haste. “Do you think he’d mind? I don’t—is it okay?”

“He’s not mad at you. He thinks you hate his guts,” Dean snorted. “Here, come on, if you can get his shoulders...”

He and Mina moved fluidly, the Force guiding their actions. Dean could have just levitated Sam to his bed—which was rumpled, messy, and unmade, and looked like Sam had been spending far too much time in it as of late.

When Sam was settled, sort of half-curled around himself on his side, his breath was a little ragged, but steady enough Dean wasn’t worried about him not getting enough air, and more importantly, not bleeding, Dean turned to Mina.

Mina had half-scurried away from Sam as soon as she’d positioned his shoulders on the bed. “I—I’m sorry. I should probably... g—go.” She’d never sounded that nervous, at least not that Dean had heard. Granted, he’d only known the re-embodied, formerly sort-of-dead Force adept for what... a few months now? But his impression was that Mina was usually pretty confident and sure of herself.

Shran had said she’d been... angry, sad, ashamed, lonely—okay, maybe something like she was acting now—when he met her, but then again, his Force presence had been more or less astral projected through hyperspace via the Beckonstone at the time, and he’d been trying to convince her to come with him to a Sith stronghold and kick Ruby out of her body, which might or might not have left Mina really dead for good, so that kind of timidity more or less made sense. When she’d actually _evicted_ Ruby she’d taken on a, not cocky, but intuitive self-assurance that had made her a very refreshing presence in Miss’Ouri’s house, now the informal headquarters for the Protectorate.

This was something new, and somewhat alarming, if Dean was honest about it.

Sam was clearly a mess, literally tearing himself up inside with guilt and grief, avoiding Mina, and here she was, doing the same thing. If Dean didn’t _understand_ both from personal experience and through the imprint of the emotion and memory he had received from Sam through the Force combined with the _twitchiness_ of Mina’s Force aura, he’d be tempted to bash their heads together to try to knock some sense into them. He might have even made a mistake of leaving them alone someplace together to work things out. But he _knew_ Sam, even for all the changes his little brother had undergone, and he was growing to know Mina, and he knew far more than he’d ever thought possible about the Force and what it could do to a person—or what a person could do to it—if an... imbalance, for lack of a better term, was left unchecked. They needed an intermediary, a neutral third party—someone to see through the Bantha dung they’d try to hide behind and help them get to the root of the really nasty demons they still harbored inside and sort out the mess before it destroyed them or got any worse.

He wasn’t looking forward to this, especially not so soon after he’d been forced to acknowledge his own... limitations in light of his Force powers. But that was something that would only serve to help him here, both his actual psychometric abilities and his acceptance of being different. And he could use all the help he could get, because this would not be a quick fix. Sam and Mina still needed to do a lot of soul searching and self-forgiveness before they could really unravel the tangled web of regret, lies, and pain they were carrying inside. They each needed to heal on their own and try to cultivate a relationship with each other, at least as colleagues. Right now they were reacting to each other on preconception, association, and guilt.

Sam saw Ruby in Min, and he blamed himself for the association and for his part in helping Ruby; he blamed himself for not seeing through Ruby’s deception, for not realizing her body wasn’t hers, for giving in to his attraction to her and allowing her to nurture his own anger, hatred, pride, and lust for power. Mina, just saw an amazingly powerful _innocent_ she’d allowed to be corrupted—her thoughts, not Dean’s—by giving in to Ruby’s temptation.

Dean shook his head, and sighed into the reassuring mental caress Cas sent his way. He let Cas know he was okay... Sam was his brother, and this was something he needed to try to handle alone (well as alone as he ever was, which was not very, since Cas was always there with him). Dean and Sam’s relationship was one more to add to the list that needed some serious triage and mending.

Cas shot another thought at Dean, pointing out Mina was looking like she was going to flee.

 _Thanks_ , Dean sent across the link with a sigh, smiling when Cas’s mental chuckle echoed back. That was another change; Cas was finally _relaxing_ , not just into his relationship with Dean, because that had happened pretty much from day one, but into life, _living_. Dean had a hunch—well it was really more than a _hunch_ since it came through the Force and Cas didn’t really have any secrets from him—that Cas hadn’t really expected to survive. _Not_ , that he’d expected that they’d fail, but that the sole purpose of his existence had been to guide Dean and ensure their success. He hadn’t been sure there was an after. He hadn’t known if he’d die in the process or if Novak would get his body back after all was said and done, or if he’d simply cease to be... maybe fade away into the Force. But then there had been the _connection_ between them, and Cas had begun to hope, to _want_ , and they’d both realized it was attachments that kept them sane, moral, grounded. And they’d both hung on with both hands...

And now there was this... this _after_ , and it was terrifying because there was no script, no prophecy, no reference file or holonovel to tell them what to do or where to go or what comes next, or where they’re going... Or what it all adds up to... And that’s when they came to the realization that it, _this_ , this was bigger than them, longer than now. The Force was (could be?) truly eternal, and the Protectorate, by its very nature and mission, had to be enduring. It was more than this one threat, more than one prophecy, more than them, more than now. They’d realized the Protectorate mustn’t have started five thousand years ago, because it was intrinsically bound to the Force, stemming from it and watching over it. The Protectorate could not end with them, nor could they even hazard a guess if this narrowly averted cataclysm was even among the worst the Protectorate could or would avert. At times, their role might be more... visible, while at others it might be even more thoroughly shrouded in secrecy and hidden in the background than even this had been. And they wouldn’t or _couldn’t_ ever know.

It was damning and frustrating to the extreme. Dean had spent most of his life desperate for a _home_ , and he’d found one in Cas—a place to belong, a real _family_ in the Protectorate—but now he realized his family was even bigger and older and more complex than he’d ever dreamed... and there were so many questions, but answers that would never come. Patience. He must learn patience, and acceptance, even if it was always difficult.

Cas nudged him again—amused, but a little exasperated. _Oh right, Mina!_

“Mina,” Dean said, gently as possible.

Mina still jumped. “Yes?”

“Come,” he beckoned her back towards the bed from where she’d been drifting towards the door. “Sit, relax.” Catching her skeptical gaze, he cursed inwardly and offered, “you haven’t done anything wrong.”

They both glanced at Sam, and Mina opened her mouth to speak.

“Trust me, this is because he was busy twisting himself up as much as you were. You two need to work past this, but leaving you to your own devices is clearly dangerous. So just sit, listen, and let me do the talking.”

Mina swallowed, her throat bobbing, looking chastened and thoroughly chastised. It was wrong, but it also gave Dean a clearer picture of what he was working with.

Cas gave him a reassuring mental smile and slipped silently from the room. Dean could feel Cas’s amusement. This was Dean’s mess to unravel. Even though Cas was going to be right there, at least mentally for the whole thing, there was a difference, and in a way, this was payback for Dean’s near glee when Cas had been the one to _talk_ with Shran about his role in the Protectorate. Dean gave Cas a loving nudge back and braced himself for the conversation he was about to have. He turned back to Mina, who was now perched awkwardly on the edge of Sam’s bed. “Just sit,” he gestured again.

Mina slid further onto the bed, but kept herself as far from Sam as possible.

Dean nodded at her; distance was probably for the best. Sam was going to be jumpy when he woke up, and that was going to be any moment now...

Right on cue, Sam’s eyelids fluttered, and he made a whimper that morphed into a gasp. Sam looked around wildly, eyes darting to Dean, the door, then Mina. He and Mina both flinched and jerked farther apart when their eyes met. Sam scrabbled at his stomach, looking for a phantom wound, his eyes darkening with confusion when he found blood, but no sign of injury and no damage to his clothes.

Dean shot out his hand, steadying Sam. He inhaled in shock at how much easier it was to touch Sam now than just a few minutes ago. Sam had fewer secrets and surprises from him, and his healing Sam had put their respective connections to the Force in better tune. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Steady Sam, just take deep breaths and relax.”

“Wh—what happened?” Sam asked, clearly disoriented.

Dean watched as information slotted into place behind Sam’s eyes. “Mina wanted to talk to me. I got sick. Was bleeding...” he looked down again at his tunic where a tacky rusty red blood stain was all that remained of the injury Dean had healed. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and swallowed, gagging at the taste.

 _Shoulda got him water_ , Dean mentally chastised himself.

Sam’s gaze traveled from the trace of blood now smeared on his hand down his body to his side where Dean was touching him, bare hand to Sam’s exposed skin. “Dean, why are you touching me?” He jolted upright, wincing with the sudden movement, and causing Mina to make an aborted scramble toward the head of the bed. “Better yet, _how_ are you touching me? I get that—I did something?” he sounded uncertain. “Somehow I was hurt, like the lightsaber only bleeding more, and you healed me,” Sam added with certainty. “And I get that. But shouldn’t you be,” he waved his hand around, “in pain? Picking up too much from me or... are you not psychometric any more?” His voice had risen to an almost squeaky pitch in his confusion.

Dean just shook his head. “You know, I used to be able to touch you without anything happening.” Dean glanced around uncomfortably, his voice hitching, growing rough with the sudden swell of emotion. “I mean, this isn’t exactly the first time I’ve patched you up or kept you from puking yourself into oblivion. I _raised_ you, Sam. Yeah, there were those years apart when you went to school, but, you know, we kind of covered all that material with the screaming and crying and exploding and running for our lives that we did when we joined up again. You don’t have secrets from me, Sam. You’re an open holonovel.” He looked down at his hand where it touched the skin just above Sam’s hip, rubbing gently with his thumb. Sam felt warm and alive; the clamminess of only a few minutes ago was already subsiding into healthy-feeling skin.

Sam had the decency to look chagrined, but quickly slipped into a false smile and started nodding as he pulled himself the rest of the way to sitting. “Well that, that’s great Dean, I’m really glad we’re back to being brothers. That’s great for you, but I’m feeling kind of tired now, so maybe you and R—Mina,” he caught himself hastily, “could come back another time?” Sam moved as if he was planning to settle on the bed, fully expecting everyone to leave.

“No,” Dean answered; then, firmer, “No.”

Sam’s jaw dropped.

Mina looked very confused and uncomfortable, but at least she didn’t try to flee.

“Good,” Dean grunted nodding in Mina’s general direction.

“Wait a minute, what do you mean, ‘no,’” Sam started to protest, squirming upright again.

“I mean, no. You two have been avoiding each other since you recovered. You both think you’re entirely to blame for each other’s bad experiences at the hands of Ruby and Azazel”—both Sam and Mina flinched at the mention of the Sith—“and you are literally making yourselves sick with guilt.”

“I’m not sick—”

“But it _is_ my fault—”

“Shut up!” Dean said, cutting them off.

Mina crossed her arms and sulked. Dean had to suppress a laugh; it was woefully inappropriate, but Mina had a sort of calm, almost regal air about her that did not translate into sulking at all well. “Honestly, I am not sick—”

“Don’t lie, Mina. You may not have been puking your guts out like Sam, here, but you haven’t been sleeping. You’ve been lying awake trying to get up the resolve to _apologize_ to Sam. Don’t look at me like that either. I _know_ these things, and not because I’ve been peeking into your mind—because I haven’t—but because you’re so drenched in anxiety and exhaustion, it’s impossible for any Force sensitive within a thirty meters not to notice. Plus you touched me when we were moving Sam,” Dean admitted with a shrug.

“Wait, wait—apologize? Why would Mina need to apologize to me? I should be apologizing to her. Oh blast,” Sam whined smacking his head against his palm. “I am so sorry...” His voice was raw, and he shuddered, embarrassment radiating out of him and into Dean’s hand where it was still pressed against his side. “And Dean, I hate to break it to you, but I think your psychometry’s malfunctioning, because Mina doesn’t feel anxious to me, at least not in any way I can—”

“Sam,” Dean cut him off again. “Just no. You’re so wrapped up in your own emotions you’ve got no perspective here.”

“I don’t understand what Sam’s apologizing for either,” Mina said, her voice small and uncertain. “I mean if I—”

“How could you not know—” Sam interrupted.

“Quiet!” Dean shouted, projecting his voice in the Force.

 _Ow_ , he thought, his free hand rubbing frustratedly at his temple. Their combined emotional turmoil was giving him a headache.

“Ok, everyone be quiet and listen, because I’m only going to do this once. If we try to let you two sort out why you feel the way you feel and start explaining why your abject guilt and regret is completely justified and wholly at fault, we’ll be here all week, nothing will get solved, and my head will explode from the migraine I’m getting. And no,” he waved his hand at them, “that’s not a guilt trip. It’s just a fact of my life that when I’m in close proximity to Force adepts who are in pain, I will feel that pain too.”

Dean sighed, settled himself, and forged ahead. “So, let’s do this the easy way. Sam, Mina feels responsible for Ruby having access to you in the first place. She’s so twisted up with guilt and shame over buying into Ruby’s claims of importance and destiny and promises of unification with the Force that she’s giving herself migraines and losing sleep. She’s wanted to apologize to you for her greed, but nothing she can think of saying feels adequate. From her point of view Ruby would have never been in a position to meet you or seduce you or prey on your insecurities and fears if Mina hadn’t given Ruby her body. She would have accepted losing her life as the cost of giving in to her lust for importance and romanticizing prophecy. She’s glad she has a chance to come back and set things right, do something _good_ with her life, and the wisdom she’s gained. Use her connection with the Force to heal, not harm. But the more time she’s spent here, the more she’s realized that her weakness hurt you more than it hurt herself and it almost destroyed the world.

“Mina’s not really sure what to do about that. She noticed you were avoiding her, and she thought it might be because you’re angry, and she didn’t want to intrude on that. So she’s been stuck, weighing her options, unsure what to do. If you’d seen Miss’Ouri around her the last few days, Miss’Ouri’s been throwing out all these lines of wisdom and advice, and Mina just keeps getting more and more upset looking. It finally got to the point where she’d rather apologize to you in person and take whatever wrath you want to unleash than face Miss’Ouri’s disappointed tutting one more time.”

Sam’s face was scrunched up in a pained expression caught somewhere between protest and confusion, but he seemed too bewildered to speak.

Dean was panting a little from his rapid-fire speech. Stealing a glance at Mina—whose face had turned pink and whose mouth was open in a shocked “o” of disbelief, Dean plunged onward. “Mina, Sam here has been literally tearing himself up inside with guilt and regret over what he did with Ruby. He knows what it’s like to be possessed and have the thing possessing you use your body for sex, keeping you aware of everything that’s going on, feeling emotions alien to you and not being able to sort out your own disgust or hide from the physical reaction of your body. When Azazel used his body that way it was demoralizing, isolating, disempowering... you get the idea. He knows you weren’t in your body when Ruby was using it, but he’s not really sure if that makes a difference, since he knows you had _some_ connection to your body while Ruby had it, otherwise you’d never have been able to kick her out and kill her off, and he’s not really sure if he would feel worse or better finding out after the fact that his body had been used that way rather than being a passenger the whole time.

“Sam feels extra conflicted because he honestly believes he should have _known_ what Ruby was and realized that he didn’t rate a special teacher with destined powers. He knows that his sexual relationship with Ruby was all tied up in lust and power and greed and self-indulgence and anger at me and Cas—he never loved her or had any _wholesome_ emotions towards her, but he boinked her anyway. And this has nothing to do with you, Mina, but there’s a whole extra load of baggage Sam is dragging into this because he feels like the whole thing denigrated Jessica’s memory—that’s his girlfriend that Azazel murdered, so he’s heaping more guilt and self-loathing on himself for that.

“And then there’s the whole part where when Azazel was using Sam for sex, he was fucking Ruby, so he feels doubly guilty about that, because he feels like an idiot for _allowing_ Azazel to possess him, even though he should know it doesn’t work that way,” Dean glared at Sam who flinched a little and hung his head. “And so now Sam’s convinced you have some justified, deep-seated hatred of him. He’s afraid if he _inflicts_ his presence on you it’s going to cause horrible flashbacks for you and make you sick with anguish over what Ruby did with your body while she had it.” He let out a huff.

This time Sam looked like he was trying to crush himself into an invisible ball, while Mina looked alarmed and a bit dismayed.

“She’s not dismayed that you had sex with Ruby, Sam, she’s upset that you think she’d be disgusted with you—oh good grief!” Dean finally snapped. “Both of you, just sit up, shut up, and listen. I’m not saying any of this is the truth. I’m just telling you what you’re both _thinking_ and feeling so strongly you’re having a deleterious effect on the Force around you—Cas’s words, not mine. Don’t you get it?”

He looked from Sam to Mina and back again. Blank stares all around. “Sithspawn!” he threw up his hands, instantly regretting his choice curse as both Sam and Mina flinched. “Sorry. Sorry... just, don’t you see? You’re both Ruby’s victims. She fucked over both of you. Used you. Manipulated you. Preyed on your fears and needs and dreams and hopes and emotions. She gave you both something _almost_ like what you really wanted—for Sam that was love, companionship, and approval; for you, Mina, that was recognition of your gifts, belief in you, and finding you worthy. You fell for it; you suffered. But the big important thing is you _both_ figured out her game and saved yourselves before she got what she really wanted. You’re survivors. Sam, you overcame Azazel, and Mina, you kept enough of a hold on your body to kick Ruby out of it and take it back. You should be _proud_ of yourselves. You should see common experiences and kindred spirits in each other. Because I can tell you with absolute certainty neither of you blames the other.” Dean squeezed his right hand into a fist, letting some of the tension flow out of him and into his hand, focusing just hard enough that the furniture in Sam’s room levitated and hovered about five centimeters off the floor. He squeezed Sam’s side gently with his left hand, trying to pour some of the _peace_ he found in the Force back into Sam.

Sam _finally_ relaxed a little, unfurling incrementally, slowly, then sitting up again and meeting first Dean’s eyes and then Mina’s.

Dean inclined his head towards Mina, who let out a tense sigh of her own.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured. “And one more thing, and this is the really important part—you’ve both gotta let go of that guilt and self-blame. As long as you hold onto it, as long as you second-guess yourselves and obsess about what you could have done differently, you’re letting Ruby win. And she doesn’t get to win. Don’t let her.” Dean patted Sam’s side again, and reached out for Mina’s hand, squeezing it in his, and nodding with approval at the marked improvement in mood she’d already made. “Good. Okay, my work here’s done. It’s time for you two,” he pointed back and forth between them as he stood, “to start talking. You don’t know each other, remember that.”

~~~

Sam had pulled himself into a seated position at the foot of the bed, while Mina remained pressed against the wall at the head. Sam wasn’t sure if Mina still had the look of an iriaz in the headlights of a landspeeder because he’d been focusing on his hands, fiddling with the drying bloodstain on his tunic, and had been ever since Dean had strode from the room leaving shock and turmoil in his wake.

Mina wasn’t talking. The tension was starting to _itch_ —it was probably all that anxiety feeding into the Force. He was sure he was probably projecting his emotions, making it almost impossible for another Force user to _not_ pick up. And he was pretty sure the itchy feeling was coming from Mina.

“So,” Sam said, the word hanging in the air as it left his lips. “You... You really thought all those things? You—I don’t blame you. I’m so, so sorry I believed Ruby. I’m sorry I didn’t see. She did some awful things when she was in your body, Mina... awful, awful things, and most of them were because of me. My doing.”

Mina seemed to snap out of it, her face scrunching up, seeming to catch on Sam’s words.

“Well, I’m sorry for believing Ruby too, Sam. If I had seen through her lies or fought harder she never would have been in a position to get to you. Or she would have found some other body. If I’d just done what I did to kill her when she first took over, I could have stopped her then and there. She would have never met you or had the opportunity to seduce you,” Mina almost shouted, throwing up her hands in frustration. “Let me ask you this, do you think Ruby cared whose body she was in or whose body Azazel had stolen, or would they have hooked up no matter what?”

“They were frantic, starved, hating every moment of 5,000 years apart. I don’t think they would have cared or noticed if they were possessing womp rats,” Sam admitted, spitting the words.

Mina laughed, a full-bodied, honest guffaw that sounded beautifully melodious in Mina’s voice.

Sam felt something snap inside him and he curled in on himself, only this time not in fear or pain, but because he was wracked with silent laughter. It was rippling through him, making it impossible to breathe as the giggles continued. They laughed for what felt like hours, each burst of air from Sam’s mouth was another kilogram of regret and fear and guilt and sorrow lifted from his shoulders. When they finally quieted, they were both flushed and exhausted—Mina slumped down on the bed and Sam half falling off the end, his ankles tangled in the bed covering threatening to trip him if he tried to stand. They probably looked like they’d just finished an exhausting training session with full combat drills.

“Hi, Sam, I’m Mina,” Mina ventured, sticking out her hand with newfound confidence.

Sam hesitated only a moment before he reached out and shook it. “Pleased to meet you Mina, I’m Sam.”

Mina giggled again, bringing her free hand up to cover her mouth as her fingers slipped across Sam’s. “So, Sam, tell me about yourself. Are you new here? I’ve only recently learned about the Protectorate.”

Sam hated himself a little for the shadow he felt descend behind his eyes, but he strengthened his resolve and shook it off, managing a smile before Mina lost her good mood. “Well... yes and no. You see, I just got back after a long absence. I kind of fell to the Dark Side, and all that,” he chuckled. That was the first time he’d actually said it out loud. It wasn’t any more or less real, but for the first time, he appreciated the irony. “You see, the thing is, I ran away from here because I was trying to avoid doing exactly that. But instead I almost brought an end to the Universe, but I got help and stopped, and I understand you’re partly responsible for that. Thank you,” he added with a smile and a mini bow. “Truth is, I was born here—well not in this house, but not very far away. But a Sith Lord, he killed my mom, and then my Dad started Hunting, and he took me and my brother all over the galaxy on his quest. I kind of hated him for it... but now I understand. You see, eventually the Sith Lord caught up with me, and then my brother and I found our way back here. And this should have been home again, but I ran. And well... you kind of know the rest, or at least have some idea.”

He felt the shame threatening to bubble up out of the unending cavern within him that seemed to constantly refill with new self-criticism and self-loathing. But rather than cringing and imagining the judgment Mina was surely—in his mind—leveling against him, he took a deep breath, let it out, and _focused_ centering himself in the Force. He could wait, listen, and hear rather than jumping to a conclusion.

Mina’s mood slipped a little with the oblique mention of Darth Azazel, but she quickly schooled her features and smiled again. “Well, Sam, I am very new here. I’d never been off Ossus before Master Shran called me with the Beckonstone and I found myself wrestling my body back on Korriban. I grew up on Ossus, near the ruins of the original Jedi Archive. I used to watch the archaeologists as they worked, wishing I could be one of them. I could feel I was different, drawn to the archive ruins because they spoke of my heritage, but no one comes looking for _living_ Jedi on Ossus,” her tone bore hints of her bitterness and exhaustion.

“So, I always wondered, always watched, but never learned. When I was 12, I found a cave whose walls were covered in runes and sigils. There were the remains of books and data files buried among the sands in varying states of decay. I decided if I wanted to learn, I would have to teach myself. So, every day I could, I would slip off to the cave. I figured out some of the runes and tried to instruct myself from the texts. There was this text about a Lost Prophecy. I thought the Jedi would like to know about it, so I told one of the research teams.” Mina hung her head.

“They blew you off, told you it was nothing. Not your concern, not to worry,” Sam realized.

“Yes,” she agreed nodding. “They almost laughed at me. I could tell most of them thought of me as a silly native. I could tell one of them thought I might be Force sensitive, but he didn’t say anything because... because they wouldn’t be able to train me if I was. I wouldn’t be a danger out there, so everyone was better off if no one knew about my sensitivity, including me.”

“You were hurt, but you kept going back every day to the cave,” Sam surmised, “until one day there was something else there.”

“Ruby,” Mina nodded. “You know the rest,” she added with an exhausted sigh.

“Why—why did you say ‘yes’?” Sam finally brought himself to ask.

“I could feel the truth in her words—some of them at least. I knew she was being honest when she explained how much the Jedi would fear me, despise me, try to stop me if they ever found out I’d been training myself to use the Force. I was flattered by the stories she told me about how important I’d be. And I was supposed to be helping the Chosen One of the Lost Prophecy... I don’t know, I felt...”

“Vindicated?” Sam asked.

Mina nodded her agreement scooting forward on the bed and tucking her knees up to her chest. It was the most relaxed and open she had been since Sam met her. “I was almost _relieved_ that someone else knew of the Prophecy, that it wasn’t just me,” she twisted her hands in the bed sheets. “I should have known, should have been suspicious, but the Prophecy didn’t warn of her, so I allowed myself to believe. Now...” She turned her head away, looking out the window behind Sam. “Now that I think back, I can tell the difference between the truths she told and the lies. But then,” she shuddered, trembling from head to toe. Her eyes snapped back to Sam suddenly.

Sam gasped at the clarity in her eyes.

“There was a... difference in the feel of her words, but they weren’t lies... she almost believed what she was telling me. Maybe she did believe. There was so much ambition and hope and joy and power in her words—they overpowered everything else. I didn’t see the shadow behind her until I was letting go of my body. As she slipped past me on the way in, it brushed against me.” Mina shuddered again. “Pure corruption. Evil. I’d never felt anything like it before, and I hope to never feel it again.”

Sam nodded. He knew what that felt like. Recognized the taint of it in himself, recalled the slick, sick stench of it as Azazel had slipped inside, his soul pouring down Sam’s throat, choking him with the acrid taste of corruption.

“Why did you say ‘yes’?” Mina asked.

Sam was jerked from the painful slipstream of old memories. He shrugged, shoulders hitching up around his ears. “I was angry. Lonely. Feeling both threatened and dangerous. I’d been trying to train myself and was terrified I’d kill Dean, just like I did every night in my dreams, almost every time I closed my eyes. She found me, made me chase her, _knew_ things she couldn’t know unless she was somehow involved in the Prophecy.” He looked down at his hands, which were now folded in his lap. “I was jealous of Dean. I wanted so much to be special like him. It was my burden to discover my powers. I was the Chosen One—and suddenly it’s all about Dean and no on trusts me. I felt like some kid who everyone thought needed to protected. I wanted some control over my life, a way to help myself, someone to believe in me... and then suddenly I didn’t have Dean, even when he’d always been there, even when I ran away. Cas was... I thought there was nothing special between Dean and me any more. Years of brotherly bonding, having each others’ backs, no one else to depend on or trust, and then, suddenly I couldn’t touch his mind...

“—I was lost,” Sam breathed, “and Ruby offered me a way to find my way out. I wanted so hard to believe there was some one special for me, I didn’t...”

“You didn’t allow yourself to see what was right in front of you,” Mina supplied.

Sam nodded as he tried to sort through the old emotions and the new perspective hard-learned lessons had provided.

Mina’s touch drew him out of it. It was hesitant, a hand on his arm, gentle press of fingers into skin. But it was the first time she’d touched him. “Sam, you realize you were paranoid...”

“I closed myself off. I couldn’t sense anyone’s intentions—including Dean’s—because I wouldn’t allow myself to feel.”

“Maybe the message here is it really was Ruby’s fault. She’s the one who preyed on our fears and desires, who was deluded enough herself she got past our sensors and tried to take us over the edge with her,” Mina said, sounding optimistic.

“I think that’s what my brother was in here trying to tell us,” Sam admitted conspiratorially, leaning towards Mina as he spoke. “Only... that kind of feels like cheating, doesn’t it? Like we shouldn’t get off the hook that easy?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Mina agreed.

“Well, I did almost destroy the Universe.” Sam furrowed his brow. “I don’t know how to make up for that.”

“You were willing to give your life to stop it in the end. You did, from what I understand; your brother just brought you back.” Mina bit her lip, deep in concentration.

“For the second time,” Sam admitted.

“I’ve been dead too, only my death wasn’t exactly... peaceful. I also didn’t move on, so I don’t now what it’s supposed to be like, after,” Mina said.

“I almost moved on the first time. It felt kind of like I was expanding, more connected to the universe around me. We were on this long-abandoned floating city on Manaan. The main civilization there is in the ocean, deep under water. The planet is teeming with life, overflowing with it, only you’d never know it from the surface. It just looks like a great, big, blue ball, with a too-pristine, white, empty city floating like a loan island. I hadn’t even thought about the presence of other beings there, how much Force was flowing through the place until I was leaving it. Then it was all so obvious... I,” Sam took a huge gulping breath, “I couldn’t see it and I almost missed it all. I felt like a fool.”

“But you lived. You didn’t go.” Mina’s voice as barely more than a murmur. “I wonder sometimes, how it would have been if I’d hung on a little harder. If Ruby just hadn’t gotten in. What would she have done? Even if I had died... maybe it should have been kind of a ... how do you call it? A grudge match? If I couldn’t have my body, then no one could.”

“Well, I, for one, am glad you didn’t die. I’m glad I got to meet you. I feel like ... this is a good chance for me to atone?” He was uncertain as he said it, but realization coalesced, became a little clearer. “I’ve been thinking of you as an innocent, a victim... and I’m not saying you’re not innocent, but... maybe we have more in common than I realized. Maybe you’re someone who can understand the things I _feel_ like I can’t talk to anyone about.”

“Not even your brother?” Mina asked, sounding surprised.

“Maybe...” Sam frowned. “I think I need to tell him sometime, maybe he already knows. But I’ve never... I’ve been lying, or at least not telling whole truths for so long, I’ve got to start somewhere, figure it all out, before I know how to talk to him. He’s—I used to think I was the normal one, and he was ... a freak, just like my dad. Happy to be different. Not wanting any responsibility, stability, normalcy. Only, now I realize he always took on more responsibility than anyone else, it was just _different_ responsibility. He thought he was responsible for keeping every sentient being in the galaxy free from the Dark Side. He felt responsible for me, wanted me to have the best life possible, I—I can see that now.”

“But you couldn’t before,” Mina said knowingly.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, “I made a lot of assumptions. I was so... angry when I realized I could touch the Force. It was one way I could never be normal, but it was _mine_ and maybe I could be _special_. Now, I understand I wanted the Force for all the wrong reasons.” He looked away from Mina, staring out the window at the strip of light above the hillside. “I fell... I started to fall before I died the first time. I’m not sure if Dean or Miss’Ouri, or Cas know it, but I gave in.”

“What do you mean?” Mina touched Sam’s leg, drawing his attention back to the present.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but the way Azazel got his other two followers back was, well... They were trapped in a Thought Bomb hidden in the Force. He managed to pull it out by using a special ritual that involved killing 66 innocents and trapping my father’s soul in another Thought Bomb. I was trying to stop Azazel from pulling the old Thought Bomb through. I _could_ have, but I couldn’t bear leaving my father trapped in torment for eternity.”

Mina was quiet, respectful; she seemed content to let Sam gather his thoughts and find the words at his own pace rather than forcing them out of him.

“I was so _angry_ , and I knew Azazel wanted me to be, but I didn’t care. I just had to get my father out. I couldn’t let Azazel take anything else from me; at least that’s what I told myself. So, I let my grasp slip, let him have a little bit of control so my father’s soul could get free, and that gave him enough time to open the other sphere and two of his followers, his lieutenants, escaped.” Sam took a deep breath, swallowing repeatedly as he tried to clear his throat while blinking back tears. “If I had been stronger, more respectful, willing to honor the sacrifice my father was willing to give... this could have all been avoided. Tens of thousands, if not millions, of people wouldn’t have been killed nor had their lives turned completely upside down.” He stopped to wipe his eyes. “I fell before I died. I was so consumed by hate and anger, I didn’t even stop to think their might have been another way, that maybe we could have freed Dad’s soul _after_ Azazel was trapped.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before Mina inched closer. “Are you... done?”

“I—I don’t know,” Sam spluttered with a stressed laugh. “I don’t really know what that means... no, that’s not entirely true. I’m afraid they’ll judge me, think of my differently, decide I’m really not worth trusting or training once they know the truth. And,” he met Mina’s eyes as he spoke, “I’m really not sure they’d be wrong. I don’t trust myself. I don’t think I’m very good with this whole _balance_ thing. Sometimes I think I’d be better off learning the Jedi’s way, but I know their lack of balance can be dangerous for the Force, and I’m not entirely sure I wouldn’t wind up like... what’s that Jedi Master’s name?”

“Zachariah?” Mina supplied.

“Yeah, him. I just don’t know what options that leaves me. If I don’t train, I’m a liability, a danger, because I could be manipulated, used by someone else too easily. And I’m sure I’d wind up using the Force anyway—”

“Sam,” Mina said cutting him off for the first time. “I know I’m not a model of virtue or anything here.” She silenced Sam’s attempted protest with a raised palm. “But I’m pretty sure Dean would say you’re thinking too much like a Jedi, and that’s just going to make you crazy. So don’t. First thing you’ve gotta do is forgive yourself. That’s what I’m trying to do. It won’t be easy, but you’re not alone in this. I think Dean knows all that, or if he doesn’t, he wouldn’t be surprised to find out. Maybe we can help each other? I will watch your back if you watch mine?”

Her mouth crooked up as she spoke. She held out her hand.

“I think I can do that,” Sam agreed, taking her hand and shaking it. “Deal.” His voice sounded shakier to his own ears than he would have liked, but as his fingers squeezed against Mina’s, he could feel the resolve building within him, as if the Force itself wanted him—them—to succeed.

“So, maybe we should see what the others are up to?” Mina asked as she let go of Sam’s hand.

He looked down at his bloody clothes. “I think I should get cleaned up first, but then we can go and train.”

Mina nodded and stood, striding towards the door. She paused with her hand on the door and turned back to look over her shoulder. “If you’re not out here in five minutes, I’ll come looking for you again.”

Sam started to protest, but stopped himself. “Okay.” He smiled as she walked away. It would take time, but he was starting to believe he could get the hang of this new life.

~~~

When Dean had left Sam’s room and was back out in the hallway, he heard and _felt_ Miss’Ouri giving the Caamasi equivalent of a chuckle. He stepped into the doorway that joined Miss’Ouri’s living room to the hallway and slouched against the wall. “What?” he asked quizzically.

Miss’Ouri and Cas were sitting in an armchair and on the couch, respectively, facing each other and drinking tea. Cas looked almost _demure_ , an illusion that wasn’t helped by the antique, ornate tea service set Miss’Ouri had stationed on the low table between them.

“Finally they’re starting to let it all go,” Miss’Ouri explained. “You did a good job in there, Dean. I had half a mind to break out Master Yoda’s lecture on fear and how it leads to anger and hate and suffering. He always gives it to younglings when they’re still open-minded enough to not be jaded.” She shook her head.

“Those two are still children, especially in their connection with the Force, but alas they are quite jaded. You have helped them though. Now they will open their minds to the Force again—before they were trapped in what they were afraid to see,” she added sagely.

Dean pushed off the wall and crossed the room, pausing at the table to pour himself a cup of tea. Without his gloves, he trembled a little with the knowledge that slipped into him. The tea set was given to Miss’Ouri by members of her clan to celebrate her return home after the initial phases of training as a Jedi. She’d been Protectorate even then, so her knowledge of her family was far greater than most other young Padawans, especially as she’d had a contact... Master Joran, who had ensured she received important messages from Protectorate on Caamas. But it had been a monumental and emotional experience and she had stored the memory in vivid detail, its swell of emotions triggered every time she used the set. It was... precious. For a moment he felt like an intruder, trespassing on Miss’Ouri’s private memories, but no— The realization flooded through him a split second before Cas prompted him through their bond. Miss’Ouri knew who and what Dean was. She had seen he didn’t have his gloves on—for that matter she undoubtedly _knew_ he wasn’t wearing them because she’d been monitoring the events in Sam’s bedroom through the Force. She would have never let him pick up the cup if she didn’t want him to see.

“Thank you,” he murmured and took a small sip. It was something spicy and unfamiliar; it might have been from Miss’Ouri’s homeworld, but he couldn’t be sure. Dean was surprised... and somewhat intrigued. Thanks to his chaotic upbringing—or early adulthood as he liked to think of it—and John’s rather eclectic tastes, Dean was familiar with many of even the most _uncommon_ cuisines in the galaxy. “This is good,” he mumbled as he unfroze and continued his path across the room, his mind already pulled away by the thread of thought Miss’Ouri’s words had tugged free. He dropped onto the couch and slid over until he was pressed against Cas’s side.

Cas slid his arm around Dean’s shoulders and brushed a quick kiss against his neck, prompting a smile.

Contact with Cas always eased the tension that sometimes built within Dean—too much energy and potential as the Force pooled within him. But he was suddenly feeling much, much better than he had only a moment before. He was pretty sure some of that was the tea, a lot of it was Cas, but the rest... the rest was Sam and Mina. He’d known their emotional paralysis was affecting him, affecting them _all_ , but he hadn’t realized the extent until it began to ease. “Miss’Ouri, do you...” He took another sip. “Was that enough? As you said they’re still jaded. I can feel the change already, but did I help? Or are they just on a little diversion, still stuck in the same thought patterns?”

“Miss’Ouri tutted, “You know as well as I the future isn’t set in stone or even _seeable_ in that way. But, yes, I think it is enough. You have removed their blinds, opened their eyes to see they’re not who—or what—they think. Their curiosity will take them from here.”

Dean laughed, “Well, if there’s one thing they’ve both got in spades, its curiosity.”

“We also have news for you,” Cas said, tilting his head towards Dean and rubbing his shoulder reassuringly.

“Oh?” Dean asked. Normally he would have picked up on something like that, but Sam and Mina had been occupying his full attention.

“Master Shran contacted us from Onderon. He says that Master Yoda offered him a seat on the council.”

“The J—Jedi High Council?”

Cas nodded the affirmative. “Apparently, the Council has sacked Master Zachariah—who fled—and Master Uriel has resigned for a period of reflection, and the Council itself nominated Shran unanimously.”

Dean wasn’t quite sure if that was a good thing, but both Miss’Ouri and Cas seemed _pleased_ , relaxed even, so this couldn’t be bad... right? “What about his duties to the Protectorate?”

“He also successfully met with Sian, and she will be traveling with him for the next standard month before coming here for training.” Miss’Ouri paused and her features quirked in the Caamasi equivalent of a wry smile. “Apparently Master Yoda guaranteed Master Shran that he wouldn’t be asked to choose sides or prioritize his duties to the Jedi above his position in the Protectorate.”

Cas added, “Master Yoda strongly implied Shran will have the opportunity to speak up and stop the Order from making a similar disastrous choice—”

Dean didn’t have to ask which choice Cas meant.

“—And Yoda promised we will be treated as equals, respected for our skills and knowledge, and protected from any future threats or endangerment on the part of the Council or the Order.”

“Wow, okay... that went a lot better than I expected,” Dean admitted, feeling more of the tension he carried within release, the Force once again flowing smoothly, swiftly through him. “When Shran gets back, I want to talk to him about setting up a meeting with the Council to discuss the use of ysalimiri in their detention center.” He shifted on the couch, twisting so he could visually gage Cas’s reaction.

There was a little hiccup in their link, and Dean could see the terror and pain that flashed behind Cas’s eyes, but Cas didn’t speak.

“Which means I’ll need to contact Bobby in the meantime, ask him to do a little more research, talk to his contacts on Myrkr—he may even know things that will be important, valuable that we haven’t thought to ask in the past because they didn’t pertain to our immediate needs.”

Now Cas shifted restlessly, his hand stuttering as it moved against Dean’s back. “Will you—are you saying you, we, need to go to Myrkr?” His voice had a breathy uncertainty Dean had never heard before.

Dean nodded slowly, “We might, we might not... that depends on a lot of contingencies we don’t know yet. I—” he reached out, resting his left hand against Cas’s chest in what he hoped was a gesture of reassurance. “I don’t know if it would be safe for me, or the Force to be around them, at least not for that long or in that number, but that’s, well, several of the things we need to find out.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss’Ouri cock her head at Cas, as if giving permission. He could feel the burgeoning question just out of reach in Cas’s mind.

“ _What are you trying to do?_ ”

Dean couldn’t suppress a half-horrified chuckle. “Well—I’m trying to do a lot of things...” It was stalling, but he wasn’t sure how to answer. Surely Cas could feel the tangled jumble of thoughts, fears, and intentions trying to all force their way out at the same time.

“I don’t think you can control the Jedi, Dean. Especially not when it comes to their detention practices.” Cas sounded more _sorrowful_ than anything else, a resigned, wary look pinching up the skin around his eyes.

“I’m not going to try to control them.” Huh, somehow Cas’s words had broken through the dam of thoughts, untangling the tendrils and letting them slip through unimpeded. “I can see why and how ysalimiri could actually protect Jedi—or any Force sensitive. They could block the effects of a particularly powerful Sith or other Force user trying to attack or influence others, either by putting the Sith inside an ysalimir bubble or by those looking to escape the attack or influence taking refuge inside the bubble.” He leaned forward meeting Cas’s eyes, his words backed by urgency. “We know that—as much as the ysalimiri nearly killed me and destroyed the Force, they also saved us. We were in no condition to fight off those Jedi. When I imagine what would happen if the Jedi actually tried to detain someone like Azazel or Ruby without ysalimiri there...”

Dean shuddered. “It’s a horrible thing to do to any Force sensitive against their will, and I can’t say I would do it if I were in the Council’s position, but I’m not sure that I wouldn’t, either. The thing is, no one knows how dangerous it is for Force sensitives to be around ysalamiri, or even _if_ there’s a risk for anyone other than me... I’m not sure it would actually be dangerous for me now that Azazel isn’t single-handedly unbalancing the Force, or if the _Force_ would be harmed by cutting me off. That’s the point. We don’t know. The Council doesn’t know. I can’t make a decision for them, but I can definitely make sure they have answers so they’re making informed decisions rather than groping around in the dark or acting on Faith. I don’t know anyone better-qualified to find the answers than us.”

Cas regarded Dean in silence, emotions shifting behind his eyes and flowing across their bond like the raging current of the Wild Kath River. Finally, slowly, Cas said, “You’re right. We do have to do this... but Dean, you have to let me protect you. Promise not to go off half-cocked and self-sacrificing. We have much more to do in the Universe, in this lifetime.” He stroked the side of Dean’s face. “I can’t lose you to...” Shock stole across Cas’s face like a ghost.

Dean knew what he was thinking—felt it, saw it—the split second consideration that the Jedi’s use of the Ysalimiri was someone-else’s problem, not their concern, not important, followed by the gut-twisting realization, the inherent superiority of that thinking. They weren’t _above_ the Jedi or separate from them. Anything any Force sensitive did to the Force, any action someone took against Force sensitives could have far reaching consequences for all—sensitive and non-sensitive alike—for the Force, and even for the Universe.

Cas blinked. “I just can’t lose you. The Force needs you—and I... I need you.”

“You’re not like him. Not like them,” Dean said defiantly.

“But I just thought—”

“But you stopped yourself. You _thought_. You realized where that path led and you realized you didn’t want to go there, that we can’t _afford_ to go there. You _cared_.” Dean squeezed Cas’s shoulder. “We may need to put others above ourselves, but I will always try to place the balance of the Force, the preservation of life in this Universe above all. I will place you above me, as you place me above yourself. We’ll save each other and stop ourselves from doing anything stupid.” Dean chuckled; it was a little bitter, but real, not forced.

Cas felt it too, Dean could tell by the startled puff of air that escaped his lips and the genuine smile that spread across his face.

“Ah-hem,” Miss’Ouri’s throat-clearing broke the spell that had fallen over them, and brought them back to the moment.

“Sorry,” Cas spoke for both of them, as they both turned their attention back to Miss’Ouri.

Dean could feel the embarrassment coloring his features. “We shouldn’t have—that... here. You shouldn’t have had to see... inappropriate.”

“Nonsense, Child,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’ve known those revelations were coming from some time. I’m just relieved you two didn’t need the prompting that _they_ needed,” she nodded towards the hallway and Sam’s room. “Because that would have been unpleasantly awkward. And no, Dean Winchester, this was not ‘just as awkward.’ That was really quite touching and entirely appropriate. I’m sorry if _your_ delicate sensibilities were offended.”

“Sam and Mina are doing just fine.” She continued. Her expression sobered and she inclined her head toward Cas. “Dean is right; you do need to research the ysalimiri. There are eddies in the Force that suggest the lizards will be of vital importance to be used for light, dark, and balance in the future. We must learn all that we can and pass that knowledge on so the Protectorate of the future is prepared.”

Beside Dean, Cas nodded in agreement, letting go of another wave of tension. “I understand.”

“But first, there is something you must do a little closer to home. Chevy?”

The little astromech trundled forward out of the kitchen gliding to a stop beside Miss’Ouri’s chair. She trilled a response that seemed to be equal parts “it’s about time” and “do we really have to do this?”

“Thank you, Chevy,” Miss’Ouri said, beaming with genuine appreciation. “Chevy came to me a few days ago and revealed some information about how Sam learned many of the Sith disciplines he came to rely on when hiding from us.”

Dean stole a glance at Cas, confirming the same buzz of uncertainty and confusion he felt through their bond. “I thought Sam learned from Ruby,” Dean ventured.

Chevy made a low wavering warble that Dean had heard enough times to know it was the astromech equivalent of “oh boy do I wish.” She stopped and rocked a little in place, but didn’t say anything else or indicate she wanted Dean to grab the datapad for translating.

“Sam did learn from Ruby, but as you may have figured out, Sam didn’t meet up with Ruby for at least a month after he left here,” Miss’Ouri began.

Dean thought back to what Mina had told him. Apparently it had taken some time—a few visits over the course of a week or so—before Ruby had been able to convince her to hand over her body. Going off of her time table, she hadn’t encountered Ruby until at least two months after they’d returned to Dantooine. Following that timeline, Ruby might have left Ossus as about the same time as Sam left Dantooine and depending on the ship, Ruby and Sam might have arrived at Nar Shaddaa anywhere from simultaneously to a few weeks apart. Only... He remembered Sam telling him he’d been gambling, saving up—had been there for... a _month_ when he met Ruby. _Huh_?

“Huh,” Cas said aloud.

“Indeed,” Miss’Ouri continued. “I wondered how that boy had stayed hidden from us for so long without help. I thought for a while that perhaps Lord Azazel was shielding Sam from us, blocking us so we couldn’t track him. But there would have been no way for his influence to penetrate this house...”

“And Sam must have been planning to leave for at least a few weeks, and none of us ever got an inkling. I mean, I knew he was frustrated, upset. But I definitely didn’t think he was going to run. It was—” Dean swallowed hard. He didn’t need to finish that sentence, the memory of the shock and terror when Sam and the _Folly_ had suddenly disappeared was written across everyone’s faces.

“He said something to you, didn’t he? About researching Sith techniques for shielding one’s presence in the Force?” Cas asked Miss’Ouri.

“Yes, and like you, I dissuaded him, or so I thought. He was _angry_ with me,” Miss’Ouri clenched and unclenched her hand. “But I didn’t think he would do anything. I was still thinking of him like a child, and I didn’t sense anything in his Force aura, didn’t _see_ anything when I searched the Force for visions, so I assumed he was okay. I was wrong.”

“We all were,” Dean murmured.

“Based on the conversation Chevy and I had, we’ve figured out Sam was researching what Sith techniques he could on the holonet. He structured his queries as searches for historical data and legends. He gleaned the information sideways—through tangents and rumors. It was all carefully structured to avoid raising suspicion and then his slicing skills erased the record,” Miss’Ouri explained.

Dean nodded; that made sense, and they all should have thought of Sam’s non-Force abilities and how they might play into his goals, but they hadn’t realized there was anything to worry about. They’d been like Jedi, blinded by the utility of the Force, forgetting the power of tools and skills at everyone’s disposal.

“Where does Chevy come in?” Cas asked.

Chevy gave an almost shameful-sounding whistle.

“When Sam couldn’t get any farther, he enlisted Chevy’s help against her will. He installed a subroutine in her primary processor that forbade her to speak of what she was doing,” Miss’Ouri paused. “Sam interfered with Chevy’s memory when he wasn’t working with her.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Chevy was _his_ ; not just his droid, but his friend, his family, and he’d been so wrapped up in himself, in his own powers, in Cas, that he hadn’t noticed anything was going on. That was two people he’d failed. “I—I’m sorry, Chevy. I didn’t know, and I should have.”

“We are both sorry,” Cas added, giving Chevy a sincere, apologetic look.

“How can Chevy tell us now?” Dean wondered aloud.

Chevy gave a series of bleeps and blurts and turned and leaned towards Miss’Ouri who seemed to take that as permission to continue.

“Chevy has been trying to overcome the subroutine since Sam installed it, but she told me it felt like something... unnatural was blocking her.” Miss’Ouri paused while her words sank in. “Since Darth Azazel was defeated, or more specifically, since Sam came back to us, she has found it easier and easier to work around, and three days ago, she successfully eradicated the subroutine, and recovered the memories with which it was interfering.”

“Are you saying that Sam was somehow using the Force to keep Chevy from fixing her programming?” Dean asked, incredulous. “Is that even possible?” As he spoke the question, the answer came to him across the bond.

“It’s possible, but very, very rare. Much rarer than the ability to mass-project illusions or absorb and re-direct energy. About ten thousand times rarer,” Cas said aloud. “When I was... in my first lifetime, I knew of only three Jedi with the documented ability to manipulate and influence machinery and artificial intelligence directly. And two of those three had died centuries before my time, at least. It might have been longer. Most Force users can control machinery to some degree. We can all stun droids or even destroy them outright—”

Chevy warbled in protest.

“Sorry girl,” Dean apologized for Cas. “We would never do it to you.” It was true. He’d do anything to make sure Chevy was alright, even if she was, he shuddered, under the influence of a Sith who could actually _manipulate_ her mind.

“But that’s because we can use the Force to send out shock waves, electromagnetic pulses, electricity—we can cause circuits to overload, crush with millions of pascals of pressure. We can also sometimes control weapons—cause blasters to jam, shock grids to misfire, that kind of thing,” Cas continued.

“But that’s because we’re either manipulating the energy being fired or the mechanical parts themselves,” Dean finished.

“Exactly. What Miss’Ouri is talking about though—that is different. If Sam actually _influenced_ Chevy, that means he can actually control droid sentience. That’s manipulating base code and chips and molecules on the quantum level. That’s influencing a droid’s thoughts just as one would the thoughts of an organic being. It’s extremely rare and very dangerous in the wrong hands,” Cas finished. He cocked his head towards Miss’Ouri, “You do not think this was Azazel’s doing.”

“No,” Miss’Ouri confirmed. “I think it was all Sam. In fact, I believe Azazel didn’t know he had this ability at all.”

“If he’d known, he would have forced or used or influenced Sam to interfere with the _Dream_ or would have stopped Chevy from freeing Bobby and trapping his acolytes. Azazel couldn’t have known anything about Sam’s affinity for droids because he didn’t even know a restraining bolt would be useless on Chevy.” Dean shuddered at the thought. If Azazel had known, their confrontation on Korriban could have ended very differently.

Chevy gave out a low groan of agreement.

“Well, Chevy is very strong willed, and I would have expected no less seeing as your momma made her,” Miss’Ouri said approvingly. “It seems she was able to fight the influence all along, or the subroutine and Sam’s... influence would have forced her to permanently wipe those memories.”

“So what do you need us to do?” Dean asked. “I—are we worried about Sam? Because aside from the whole Mina thing... he seems to be doing pretty well.” Although, Sam had seemed fine just before he fled, and look how that had turned out. He knew Sith techniques for shielding his mind...

“Dean, do you think Sam is unbalanced, in danger of giving himself over entirely to the Dark Side?” Miss’Ouri asked quizzically.

“No,” Dean answered automatically. “I’m worried about his internalized hatred and guilt, his sense of ... _otherness_. I think Sam needs to learn to let go. But he’s doing that little by little. I’d be more worried about him going too far in the other direction—trying to outdo the Jedi at their game over fear of losing himself again. Sam seems to be a little too keyed to absolutes.”

“Then we have nothing to fear on that front,” Miss’Ouri answered with a Caamasi smile.

“How can you be so sure? We missed it before—” Dean interrupted, but Cas’s eyes grew wide, and Dean found the answer spinning up out of the depths of his own mind. “I—the Force. As the conduit, the Healer, I can... _see_ how the Force is being used around me. I would know if Sam...” he gulped as he realized the implications. Now that his energy was no longer tied up in holding the Force together, there could be no secrets from him, whether he liked it or not. The Force could tell him what was going on.

“You could not sense it before because the Force was damaged,” Cas nodded in understanding, squeezing Dean’s hand in reassurance and pulling his body close, making Dean feel safe, secure, calm. “Do not fear, Dean. I believe this ability is more... subtle than your psychometry.”

Dean nodded understanding what he meant. “It’s like I have to ask. At least tell myself if I want to know. It’s not data that’s just dumped into my mind. Kind of like Shran with Force signatures... you know. We’d be really formidable working together. We could see what everyone was doing and how and who even if they were trying to conceal it.” It could be an amazing tool—or disaster in the wrong hands. One more reason for power hungry Force users—or even nonsensitives—to want to control Dean.

“Which is why we’re not to going to go advertizing your ability,” Miss’Ouri said reassuringly. “Now for the project. It seems when Sam got to a certain point with his research, he hit not so much as a dead end, but found the need to take a more hands-on approach. In his studies, he learned the location of a cave that was rumored to hold vast Sith knowledge and teachings. He took Chevy there, used her to help him with some of the computer-based security, and then forced her to stay outside and wait while he went in. She knows the location of the cave. I need you two to investigate it. Find out what it holds and what sort of threats it might pose.”

“Do you want us to destroy it or something?” Dean asked a little uncertainly.

“No Dean, the Protectorate does not abhor knowledge for knowledge in itself is not dangerous. But we would be remiss if we didn’t learn everything we can about our environment, about skills we could use or could be used against us or others and what kinds of risks they might pose to different individuals. That is what I want you two to help Chevy figure out.”

Dean gulped. “Okay, I think we can do that.” Something was bothering him, itching at the back of his mind. “Do you really think it’s likely? That there’s an unknown Sith... cave here?”

Miss’Ouri looked positively gleeful in her response. “I know you try to play dumb sometimes boy, but I know you are perfectly aware this planet once housed the Jedi Academy as well as a fabled source of Sith knowledge that was uncovered by two of the most notorious Sith Lords in recorded memory. The crystal that provides the blade for your lightsaber was also imbued with power, protected, and cultivated nearby. And of course...”

“Azazel murdered my mother here,” Dean whispered.

“Yes,” Miss’Ouri said in sympathy. “And here we stay, not hiding, but intentionally obscured, difficult to find or detect. Dantooine has long been a place of refuge _because_ it is a place of polar opposites. So much focused Light and Dark Side energy has left its mark that the planet is shrouded in mystery.”

“You think this cave is just one more Dark enclave that we didn’t know about before?” Dean postulated.

“Or maybe someone did know about it, but the information was purposefully obscured,” Cas suggested, “much like the Lost Prophecy.”

“Because Sam had to get the information from somewhere,” Dean realized, his brow furrowing. “Do you want us to work with Chevy to retrace or reconstruct Sam’s queries?”

“No, we must leave that to Sam... he needs the opportunity to come clean to us—on his own terms. If it looks like the boy is gonna bottle this up, I’ll let you know, and then we can all give him a good prod.” Miss’Ouri’s expression of mirth was genuine, and it lightened the heavy mood that had descended upon the room.

“Okay,” Dean said, scooting forward to the edge of the couch suddenly filled with energy now that a new task was clearly before him. “Let’s get started.” He turned to Cas, their thoughts mingling, unspoken, across the bond.

“We have much to accomplish and little time,” Cas agreed.

Miss’Ouri gave a pleased cluck as Chevy trilled her assent.

Dean didn’t know what they’d find, but for the first time since learning of his Force abilities, he felt hope and curiosity instead of the crushing weight of responsibility and fear of the future. What they would discover was still a mystery, but he knew they would face it together.

  
_The End..._   



End file.
